


The Lessons We Learn

by Mandelene



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, FACE Family, Family, Family Drama, Family Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-27
Updated: 2019-06-19
Packaged: 2019-08-08 15:15:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 46,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16431890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mandelene/pseuds/Mandelene
Summary: Arthur remembers what those days were like — living with a single mother and three big brothers in their squalid north London home; he remembers the screaming, the fighting, and the pain. When the past collides with the present, it all comes rushing back. Everything starts to break—the family he has now, and the one he left behind. (FACE family and Kirkland brothers human AU)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to stay up-to-date with my writing and know what's coming next, please follow me on Tumblr. My username is mandelene, just as it is here. Stay wonderful and please enjoy the story! I welcome all feedback, good and bad. I also cross-post on ffn under this username as well, so you can check me out there if you're interested!

In room 302, there is a seventy-seven-year-old man recovering from heart surgery—a coronary bypass, to be more specific. He has never smoked a day in his life and doesn't drink. He loves baseball—has been a Red Sox fan since he was a little boy—and goes to church every Sunday. He plays piano even though his hands are stiff with arthritis and is an avid reader of fantasy novels.

He lost his wife to lung cancer five years ago. He was diagnosed with Coronary Artery Disease after a bout of severe chest pain last year. He has a bubbly and charismatic thirty-six-year-old daughter with auburn hair and bright blue eyes who teaches second-grade math and science.

When Arthur comes in to examine him, the sun is still coming up and the winter sky is glowing with pinks and lavenders. The patient's daughter is sitting by his bedside, one hand on top of his, and all is well. They both seem to be in good spirits.

"The kids can't wait to see you, Dad. Emily can't stop talking about—" the daughter pauses as she notices Arthur's presence and quickly flashes him a welcoming smile. "Oh, good morning, Dr. Kirkland."

"Good morning," Arthur says back, consulting his patient's chart for a brief moment—BP was a little low last time it was checked, apparently—before returning his gaze to them. "How are we feeling today?"

"Weak," his patient complains, rubbing at his chest with his fist.

"Any chest pain?"

"A little. Not as bad as before."

"All right, let's have a listen," Arthur suggests, putting the buds of his stethoscope in his ears and placing the diaphragm over the man's heart.

"He was feeling better yesterday evening—started getting some of his strength back and even wanted to have something to eat," the daughter explains, worriedly looking on. "We watched the Red Sox game together on TV."

Arthur helps the man carefully sit up a bit so he can put his stethoscope on his back, but as he's supporting him by the shoulder, the man suddenly loses consciousness, body flopping over. His chest stills, his eyes roll back into his head, and there he is—totally rigid and cradled in Arthur's hold.

There's no way to explain how it feels to hold a dead man—to have had him in your arms as he took his final breath.

"Dad? Dad!" the daughter shouts, paralyzed with fear. "What's wrong with him?"

_Code blue. Cardiac arrest._  Arthur hits the code button on the wall and starts prepping everything for when backup arrives. He has several seconds before chaos really sets in.

_Get the daughter out._

"I'm going to need you to step outside for a moment, darling," he says, impeccably calm, and, thankfully, she doesn't argue with him. She heads for the door in silent horror just as the rapid response team comes pouring in.

Chest compressions. Pushing epinephrine. The patient's frail ribs fracture and make an awful noise like splintering wood. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. But they keep trying. They try until a lung gets punctured, and Arthur has to put in a chest tube that is unlikely to revive him anyway. He makes a careful incision and does everything by the books, but still, they fail.

"Call it," the other doctor in the room murmurs to him softly twenty-two minutes later, and Arthur stares down at his bloodied gloves, still feeling the weight of the man's body in his arms. The heaviness of it all is so intense he can barely breathe.

He clears his throat and says, "Time of death, seven thirty-four A.M."

And that's it.

It's not the first time, and it most certainly won't be the last, but that doesn't make it hurt any less, no matter how much he tries to convince himself he's accustomed to the feeling.

He peels off his gloves, throws them away, and washes his hands thoroughly in a nearby sink. He has danced to this song before. The faces and names change, but really, they're all the same in the end, and that's the depressing part. Now, he must tell a woman that her father is dead. Just several minutes ago, everything was fine.

Sometimes, he very truly and deeply loathes his job.

He steps out into the waiting area outside of the double doors of the unit, finds the daughter, and immediately wishes he could turn back.

" _I'm so sorry…"_

He doesn't have to say anything else. She already knows.

She throws herself into his arms, making the weight even heavier.

* * *

Arthur remembers the first time he thought he would die.

It's 1979. He is seven-years-old.

His mother is in the living room, dusting the bookcases. Patrick, Alistair, and Dylan are all watching the football match on television—it's the FA Cup final, and Manchester United is playing Arsenal. All three of his brothers are Manchester fans, but Arthur prefers Arsenal. Arsenal is closer to home—their stadium is just a fifteen-minute walk away, entrenched in north London's working-class.

But there won't be any playful talk of football for him today. Unlike his siblings, Arthur isn't glued to the screen. Instead, he's standing in his father's study, right in front of his desk. He's in trouble for using profanity—he called Alistair a  _cunt_ for saying Pat Jennings is a bad goalkeeper. He's not sure what a cunt is, but he's heard his father use that term before after coming home from the pub, and he knows it's supposed to be offensive.

"Arthur's getting a strapping!" Alistair had cheered when Arthur first was caught uttering the forbidden word.

And now, here he is, hands clasped behind his back and heart thumping hard against his chest as he waits to see what his father will do. The man's breath smells of Irish whiskey, and it makes Arthur want to curl up his nose in disgust. He could run, but he wouldn't make it very far, and where would he go?

It doesn't take long for him to realize he's going to have to endure more than just a lecture. The moment he catches a glimpse of his father's belt, he starts to wail with remorse, hoping his tears will be enough to make the man reconsider. But James Kirkland does not pride himself in being a forgiving man. He believes in strict, swift discipline.

"What do you have to say?" he asks as Arthur numbly stands there with puffy cheeks and eyes.

"I'm s-sorry, sir. I won't say that word again."

What follows is a bit of a blur. James Kirkland is even less forgiving when he has a drink or two in his system, and there is nothing Arthur fears more than that look of detachment in his eyes—how he doesn't even seem to care that he is his  _son_  and a  _child_. A child who used a word he inherited from the very same person whom he is now being punished by.

He screams when his brain registers the blazing pain. It goes on for what feels like an eternity. Dread fills his stomach when he thinks that maybe his father will never stop. Maybe he'll go on forever and ever until he collapses.

Fortunately, his mother comes in before that can happen.

" _Enough. James, that's enough."_

" _You spoil him, Eileen."_

In his father's view, this is discipline. If one does not suffer, then one does not learn their lesson.

And, for a very long time, Arthur believes this to be true. After all, his father is always right. For two weeks, welts the size of two-pound coins near his tailbone pain him every time he sits or leans against something. He gets sent to bed without dinner that night.

Arsenal wins the match.

* * *

It's raining –- just a drizzle.

He doesn't open up his umbrella. In a way, he feels he deserves this. Tonight, he needs to be rained on. He wishes it would start pouring—wants the water to seep into his clothes and pool in his shoes. He wants to feel himself being dragged down. Down, down, down, until he forgets and is absolved of his guilt.

He doesn't want anyone to see him in this state, but he's already missed dinner and he can't walk any slower toward the house. He's in the driveway now. There's no turning back.

He steadies himself with a deep breath and lets the rain wash over his head and face. It doesn't rinse away how disgusting he feels beneath his skin, but it'll have to do.

He fits his key into the lock of the front door, hears the welcoming click invite him inside, and creeps into the foyer. He hears the sound of his own heavy breathing and it occurs to him that his hands are clammy and shaking.

_Pull it together_ , he tells himself.

"Arthur? You're home."

He lifts his gaze and sees Francis at the base of the steps, one hand clutching the banister. He's frowning, and his brows are drawn down in what seems to be concern as he pulls his silky robe around himself more tightly–he must have been getting ready for bed.

What time is it anyway?

"Hi," Arthur manages to murmur, slipping out of his coat. He can feel Francis's intense eyes on his back as he tries to get settled in, and this only serves to make him feel even heavier and more tired. The weight of the world is bearing down on his shoulders, and he wants nothing more than to crumple to the ground.

"Long day?"

"Quite. Where are the girls?"

"Asleep," Francis says softly, still watching him very closely. "Did something happen?"

"No, why do you ask?"

"You're crying."

Arthur touches his damp cheek and draws his fingers back in surprise when they make contact with warm tears. He thought it was the rain that was making his face wet. "Oh."

"What happened,  _mon amour_?"

Yes, what happened?

"Arthur?"

"It's nothing. I just—I lost a patient today. It was unfortunate," Arthur sighs, trying to brush it off quickly. This is the last thing he needed…After everything else that's been going on this was just…too much.

Francis wraps his arms around his shoulders and frowns. "I'm sorry."

He's not in the mood. Not tonight. He doesn't want to be touched.

He pulls away, takes a breath, and decides he needs a shower and some sleep. Then, he'll be able to approach everything with a clearer mind, hopefully.

Francis takes the hint that he wants to be left alone and doesn't continue smothering him. Instead, he murmurs, "There are some leftovers in the fridge if you're hungry."

"I'm not hungry, but thank you for the offer."

"You should eat—you're getting too thin. You don't eat enough at work, and you've stopped eating when you're at home, too."

"I'm fine. I know how much I should be eating," Arthur says a little gruffly. He's tired enough as is, and now he has to be interrogated about his dietary habits, too?

Francis stares at him for a long time in that inquisitive way of his, and it makes Arthur incredibly uncomfortable and slightly annoyed. He needs some space. Everything will be resolved in due time. He's working on it. Everything is fine. If everyone would just take a step back and let him handle what needs to be handled, everything would go swimmingly.

Time to change subjects.

"How is Madeline feeling?"

"She was fine today and said she felt okay at school. You were right—it was probably just allergies since she felt better after you gave her that antihistamine last night," Francis whispers, expression a little more sorrowful. "I worry though—she catches everything these days."

This is true. Arthur isn't sure what's been causing Madeline to become increasingly prone to colds and other viruses, but he suspects it's just a developmental phase, as there doesn't seem to be anything else medically wrong with her. Puberty has worsened her allergies and weakened her immune system, or maybe it's just the stress of being in high school. Either way, she has already had to miss a few days of school this year—not that this matters very much. Madeline still somehow manages to excel in her classes anyway. There's no need to worry about her grades slipping. In fact, Arthur and Francis suppose she can afford an occasional sick day—she worries about school far too much at times and has earned some days off every now and then.

Winter is just a few weeks away, and that's bound to bring a few more viruses into their household, so Arthur plans to start Madeline on a multivitamin and a probiotic to help boost her immunity. Short of embarrassing her by making her wear a medical mask to school (and while the idea is tempting, both Francis and Madeline herself wouldn't allow for that), there's not much else to do.

"I'm glad she's feeling better," he finally sighs. "I'm going to shower. You should go to sleep."

"I'll wait for you."

"You don't have to. As you can see, I'm not pleasant company tonight."

Francis smiles warmly. "Believe it or not, I've grown used to it."

Arthur's not sure whether he's supposed to feel insulted by that or not. He doesn't have the energy to care, so he goes into the bathroom, gets under the showerhead, and lets water pour over his skin again—just like the cold rain—and hopes that this time he'll feel a little cleaner—purer.

Anguished shouts of  _"Dad!"_  reverberate through his ears over and over again. He turns off the water, presses his face into a towel, and then leans over the toilet to be sick. He makes sure to start the water again—this time in the bathroom sink—so that his retching is muffled by the noise. This is the third time he's vomited this week.

It's getting worse.

* * *

_1979, London_

Being the youngest means always having to keep up with everyone else.

While Arthur is just beginning to learn how to multiply, Patrick is already fifteen and has sprouted up into a charming young man. He is, in many ways, the man of the house when their father is at work or out late at the pub. Tawny-haired, broad-shouldered, and green-eyed—he is the spitting image of their father. Everyone always points out the resemblance between them, but Patrick seems to become agitated whenever the similarities between them are brought up rather than being proud of carrying his father's traits.

In those days, Patrick is, in Arthur's eyes, a mean elder brother who bosses him around and tries to be a surrogate parent. Years later, Arthur will understand and come to appreciate the pressure on him to be an adult—to take charge and care for the rest of them.

But appreciation is the last thing he feels whenever Patrick forces him and Dylan into their pajamas and makes them go to bed at nine o'clock. Why does Alistair get to stay up until ten?  _Because he's older. You're too young, Arthur. You're too small. You don't understand. You never understand anything. Just grow up already and keep your nose out of trouble._

Trouble has a knack for coming to him, however.

He comes down with a fever during the first week of November. His mother keeps him home from school, and he spends most of the day reading  _A Bear Called Paddington_  and playing with Lego bricks. The silence in the house is odd. He shares his room with Dylan, and not having his brother lying above him in their bunkbed feels strange.

Around mid-afternoon, when he grows bored of the Legos and he's too tired to read, he sits near the window and watches people as they come and go. He leans his hot forehead on the cool glass and wonders if he'll be able to convince his mother to let him ride his bike in the park tomorrow if he's feeling better—they can't just let Saturday go to waste without doing anything.

He nearly falls asleep right then and there while daydreaming, but then, a familiar face catches his attention.

Is that Alistair with a  _girl_?

Arthur sits up straighter and squints his eyes as much as he can. There's no mistaking it—that's his second eldest brother, and he's with Victoria Wright, a girl with jet black hair, blue eyes, and a  _nose piercing_. She's the same age as Alistair—twelve. Her father served in the navy, and she has two brothers and two sisters. The Wrights are a big family, just like theirs. Mrs. Wright doesn't work, and Arthur has heard his mother complain about how she never cleans up after the dog.

And then, the moment finally comes…Alistair  _kisses_ Victoria.

Arthur gags and quickly screws his eyes shut. Gross! What should he do? He can't keep this a secret. He can't let Alistair get away with what has just transpired before his very eyes.

He watches the lovebirds separate and go in opposite directions…Alistair is coming up to the house now.

Arthur sprints out of his room and barrels down the stairs, adrenaline running up and down his arms. Finally, he has some valuable information that his other brothers don't have. For once, he is in the loop. He can't let this moment go to waste. He must tell everyone. The whole world has to know about Alistair Kirkland and Victoria Wright.

He races to the foyer and catches Alistair just as he's coming in through the front door.

"I saw you and Victoria snogging!" he proclaims proudly, elated when he sees his brother's cheeks flush scarlet and his face fill with shame. "ALISTAIR AND VICTORIA WERE—!"

"Shut up!" Alistair hisses, slamming his hand down on Arthur's mouth and holding it there firmly. "Yer such a brat. Ye didn't see anything, do ye understand me? Or else."

Arthur tries to break free, but Alistair pins him against the wall and is much, much stronger.

"Alistair and—mphhm—and—!"

"I said to  _shut up_ , or I'll tell everyone in yer class how ye pissed on yerself last year."

That was  _one_ time.

Alistair's usual threats don't scare him. This is too good. He can just imagine the look on Patrick's face when he finds out.

"Let—mphm—go!"

"I'll give ye five pounds to keep quiet."

Pft. He's going to have to do better than that.

"What's going on here? Arthur, why are you out of bed?" their mother suddenly asks, appearing from the living room. "Alistair, what are you doing? He's ill—this is no time to be wrestling."

Alistair releases him reluctantly, and Arthur lets out a string of coughs, a little worn out from the excitement.

"Back to bed," his mother orders, pressing a hand to his forehead and clicking her tongue at him when she feels that he's still much too warm for her liking.

"But Alistair—!"

"Bed, Arthur. Now. And Alistair, take those shoes off. I've just cleaned the floor."

That's okay. He can still use this as blackmail in the future. Not all hope is lost.

* * *

The fever worsens.

He wakes at one o'clock in the morning, burning up and unable to get comfortable. Dylan is in Alistair and Patrick's room for the night, and so, he is all alone in the darkness, miserable and shivering. He does what any child would do—he cries. Cries and cries until his mother rouses and ambles over to him. She brushes his hair back and tries to hush him, and he wants nothing more but to be held and told it will be all right—that this will pass, and he'll feel better soon. He wants his mother's kiss on his brow. Wants her attention. Wants to be rocked in her arms. Wants to be the center of her attention for just this moment.

"Shh, Arthur. Please…"

Her words do not bring him comfort. He is only made to feel as though he is being a burden. He is keeping her up. She is tired. He is a nuisance.

He hears the door downstairs creak open. His father is home. Probably drunk…Definitely drunk.

"Shh, shh. Go back to sleep, Arthur," she begs him, and then, she leaves his bedside to tend to his father, and for a good moment, Arthur is too disappointed and upset to shed any more tears. He just listens as his father clumsily comes up the stairs and makes a racket.

And then, when things become quiet again, he begins sobbing once more, feeling forgotten. He wants his mother to come back. Wants her to sit with him. Why isn't she here?

His weeping attracts the opposite kind of attention he craves.

" _For fuck's sake_ …Shut him up, Eileen. I've told you you've made him soft. Kirklands don't cry," his father grunts, coming into his bedroom. "It's about time you learnt that, Arthur."

"He's unwell," his mother begins to explain, but none of this seems to placate his father.

"I had better give him something to cry about."

"Come back to the bedroom, James. Leave him. He'll tire himself out."

Arthur isn't sure how his lungs manage it, but he cries even louder, increasingly distraught. He closes his eyes and wishes he could be anywhere but here. If he thinks about it really hard, maybe it'll come true—like magic.

He feels a hand clamp down on his upper arm—hard enough to bruise.

He whimpers in pain, and out of the corner of his tear-filled eyes, he sees his mother grab his father by the shoulder and try to yank him away. James responds by spinning around and hitting her in the face.

It is a sharp, piercing slap. This is not the first time his father has laid a hand on his mother, but it is the first time Arthur has witnessed it.

She isn't shocked in the slightest. She just stands there and loses all of the emotion in her gaze—an empty woman.

"Stop!" a new voice shouts, and Arthur feels like he could go to sleep right now and never wake up.

Patrick comes storming in, shoots their father a venomous look, and guides their mother out of the room while saying hurriedly, "Go to your room, Mum."

It sounds strange to hear Patrick telling adults what to do. It makes Arthur's head spin even more.

"Go back downstairs, Dad."

"Who do you think you are?"

"I've called the police. Go downstairs…We can talk downstairs. Not in front of Arthur."

His father strikes at Patrick next, landing a hit to his jaw. "This is my house."

Patrick quickly recovers and pulls himself together, standing up straight and tall. "You've terrorized Mum long enough."

Sirens. They echo in Arthur's skull and make everything hurt more.

Patrick retreats from the room and down the hall, and their father follows after him, presumably to continue fighting. The front door groans again as it gets pushed open. Arthur hears the police officers come in but never sees them. He's much too weak and stunned to crawl out of bed. He just sniffles to himself and blinks fever-glazed eyes at the ceiling. None of this would have happened if he hadn't cried and upset his father. This is his fault.

He will spend the rest of the night alone. He will wake up in the late morning when the fever breaks, covered in his own drool and sweat.

His father will be arrested for forty-eight hours and then released. Their mother will not press charges. She will ask for things to go back to normal between them—will want to retain some semblance of family. He will pack his things and leave. She will plead with him to stay. Will fall to her knees by the door and sob.  _Don't leave me. What about the boys?_

This is Arthur's first lesson in realizing that the only person he can count on is himself.


	2. Chapter 2

**_London, 1979_ **

Focusing on maths proves to be somewhat difficult when your family is falling apart.

Sitting in a desk tests his non-existent patience. Every word spoken to him by his teacher sounds like a provocation although it shouldn't be.

Arthur is angry. Always angry. Angry at himself, angry at his mother, angry at his father, angry at his siblings, angry at everything and anything. He can't make it stop, no matter how many times he tries to think about something else and be a normal boy that plays with the normal children in his class. All he can think about is the screaming and the rushing tears—his mother's hand grasping desperately at his father's as she begged him to stay. He thinks about the fever and the loneliness of his room—four walls that just keep closing in on him more and more. He doesn't know which is better: being upset and angry at school or being upset and angry at home.

Patrick says he has to grow up and be a 'grown boy' about this. This is their life now, and they simply have to accept it. They can't make things any more difficult on Mum. She needs them to be good and on their best behavior.

But try telling that to Alistair, who has already been given detention twice this month for not paying attention in lessons, or to Dylan, who got into a scuffle with another student three days ago.

"Why didn't you do your homework, Arthur?" his teacher asks him.

"I didn't know how to do it," he replies, head buried in the notebook he practices his cursive writing in.

It's the truth. Following along with the lessons has been impossible for him as of late, and everyone at home is too busy to help him with his assignments. Mum has to work during the day as a home carer looking after ill and disabled seniors, and she spends her evenings cleaning the house and cooking. After that, she's usually too tired to be bothered with anything else.

Alistair and Dylan wouldn't help him even if he asked, and Patrick recently joined his secondary school's football team (he did this precisely so he wouldn't have to be in the house), so when he's not doing his own homework, he's out at practice or spending time with his friends. Thus, Arthur's homework is often left incomplete and untouched.

Even with three elder siblings, he feels very much alone.

His teacher calls him to the head of the room to make an example out of him, instructs him to hold out his palms, and hits the sensitive flesh of his hands with a ruler five times.

He is out of tears. All he can feel is a growing hole of emptiness in his chest.

* * *

"Arthur...? Arthur, wake up. You're going to be late,  _mon cher_."

He'll get up when he wants to get up—who does the frog think he is to be bossing him around this early in the morning?

But then, the realization that he's working at the office today hits him, and he springs up into a sitting position, nausea gurgling in his gut and head throbbing. Did he drink last night? No, of course not.

Recent memories come filtering back—these symptoms are nothing new. It's been about four weeks now. Four weeks of going through great trouble to ignore his deteriorating health.

"W-What time is it?" he asks groggily.

"Seven in the morning."

" _Shit_!" he hisses, scrambling out of bed and dashing to the closet. "Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"I didn't realize you were working today until I looked at your schedule on the fridge," Francis explains, peevish because he clearly doesn't want to be blamed for this.

But Arthur isn't going to evaluate who is responsible right now (of course, this is no one's fault but his own). He has to leave. He hurriedly changes into some black dress pants, a white button-down shirt (which he won't have time to press now), and a pastel green tie that was probably a gift from Francis at some point.

"Are you all right?"

He rubs a hand over his stubbly cheek and frowns—no time to shave today. "No. I'm going to have to placate a waiting room of annoyed patients."

"I wasn't talking about that…You don't look well,  _amour_. What's going on?"

"I'm fine. Work has been—"

"Don't give me that excuse. I won't fall for it. You've been hiding from me," Francis insists.

"It's nothing…Please, just trust me," Arthur sighs, re-tying his tie because his hands have apparently forgotten how to make a Windsor knot.

"Here, let me help."

"No, leave it," Arthur growls, pushing his husband's warm hands away. "Just leave it! I'm not a child!"

"You're certainly acting like one. Calm down. What's gotten into you?"

The pain in his head courses from the top of his spine to his forehead, and the only emotion he is capable of feeling right now is fury.

_It's just a migraine_.

He can't bear to look at Francis any longer, so he turns away, storms into the bathroom, and locks the door, which is precisely something they might expect from their two teenaged girls. He's being petulant, but he doesn't have the strength to feel ashamed at the moment.

He finally manages to make a decent knot.

Francis was right, he looks horrible. His complexion has an ugly pallor, there are bags under his eyes that resemble purple bruises, and he seems to have aged in the span of a few weeks.

_Maybe they're not migraines._

The thought of breakfast makes his stomach turn, so he brushes his teeth and decides he'll do without it today. All he needs is a cup of tea and some aspirin. Perhaps this is all stress-induced. It would make sense.

A loud knock on the bathroom door makes him jump. He opens his mouth to tell Francis to let him be, but a different voice cuts him off.

"Hurry up! I have to pee!"

He rolls his eyes and opens the door. "Must you shout?"

Amelia combs a lazy hand through her bedraggled blonde hair and yawns. "I wanted to make sure you heard me…Wow, what happened to you? You don't look so good."

Arthur furrows his brows and dodges the question with ease. "We'll see how you look when you start working full-time and have two teenagers on your hands."

"Hey, I could've turned out worse. You should be happy I'm not doing drugs or anything—not the hardcore drugs, at least…Oh, my God. Don't look at me like that. I was only  _kidding_ , jeez. Don't have a heart attack…Shouldn't you be at work already? Did you call out sick?"

"No, I'm fine—I'm just running late," he explains, stepping out of the bathroom so Amelia can tend to her bladder's needs. "Don't skip ninth period geography again. I will find out," he adds warningly.

"I'm a good student, don't worry."

Arthur scoffs, unconvinced. Amelia is a good student when she wants to be, but she also has a habit of wanting to be rebellious simply for rebellion's sake.

Admittedly, Arthur knows part of the blame must fall on his shoulders. Ever since the girls started high school and he decided to take on more shifts at the hospital again, they haven't been spending as much time together as they used to. He has a sneaking suspicion that Amelia's occasional disciplinary notices are directly correlated to her desire for some attention (though she will never admit that she still needs and wants the love and consideration of her two fathers, as that might be seen as a sign of weakness).

He gathers the rest of his things from the bedroom, whispers a curt goodbye to a sour Francis who has every excuse to be upset, finds Madeline eating cereal at the kitchen table and tells her to have a good day at school, and hurries to the car—his car. He drives the black Range Rover Sport to work while Francis takes their blue Chevy Impala to his restaurant, which has been their little arrangement ever since they decided to get a second car. For reasons Arthur cannot begin to fathom, Francis dislikes driving mid-sized SUVs. He is stuck in a European mindset of having a smaller, sleeker vehicle—just one example of how he has yet to become Americanized, although they've been living across the pond for nearly two decades now.

He takes an aspirin with a gulp of water before starting the car and setting off. His office is only fifteen minutes away, and the route he takes to get there is second-nature. He lets the radio sooth the panic he feels about being late and massages the back of his neck at the next red light. If he cuts his lunch break short, he can catch up with his appointments, surely.

It'll be all right.

He catches a glimpse of a speeding white truck— _Good Value Supermarket_  something or another—for a split second in his rear-view mirror before he hears the sound of metal hitting against more metal and his car jerks violently forward.

* * *

**_London, 1980_ **

Life moves on.

But Arthur still waits for his father's return. He has hope that all of this will blow over. Dad has threatened to leave before, and he's been known to disappear occasionally. Surely, he will miss him, Mum, Patrick, Alistair, and Dylan—miss them enough to return despite the problems they've been having at home. He loves his sons, doesn't he? He will want to see them again. He will be back. He  _has_ to come back.

Things are harder with him gone. Although they've always been a working-class family, there's even less money now. At the start of the new school term, Arthur must wear all of his elder brother's second-hand garments. His uniform consists of a moth-eaten jumper that was first passed down from Alistair to Dylan and then finally to him. His shoes are Patrick's old leather loafers. His trousers are Dylan's. Why can't he have something that belongs to him and only him?

Of course, everyone at school notices, and he becomes extremely self-conscious. He knows boys with torn up clothes are often viewed as dirty and poor, so he does his best to always keep himself as tidy as possible. While the other children run around in the mud, he stands off to the side and tries to keep his shoes and trousers from becoming any more worn than they already are.

He struggles to make conversation with any of the other boys in his class. They all go to Spain or Greece on holiday and have mothers that come to pick them up after school and smother them with affection. Arthur, on the other hand, has never been outside of the British Isles, and Alistair must come to pick him and Dylan up even though he's far from being a grown-up.

The only person he could remotely begin to consider as his friend is George—a red-haired boy with freckles lining his nose and bunny-like cheeks. Sometimes they eat lunch together and draw grotesque pictures of Mr. Hornsby, their teacher.

They can't be close friends, though. Arthur can't invite him over to his house to play because then he'll find out the truth…He's been telling George that his father is a professor at LSE and that they go to football matches together every other week.

He has created an imaginary father for himself. In his mind, Dad is strong, reliable, and loving. He always takes him out for bike rides in the park and teaches him how to play cricket with his brothers. He's going to buy him a new jumper for Christmas. He reads to Arthur every night before bed and loves his mum very much…They're one big happy family.

Arthur had to fabricate this story after George told him that his father is a geologist and does research in Scotland.

How else was he supposed to respond? Should he have said that his father left their family and might never be coming back? Or how his father doesn't love him and doesn't miss him in the slightest…?

So, he lives in his comfortable little lie. It's easier than facing the truth.

* * *

He doesn't have any time to react.

His head bangs against the steering wheel, but apparently not hard enough for the airbag to be deployed. Fortunately, his foot stays plastered against the brake, and he doesn't go careening into the pedestrian crosswalk.

His ears ring from the impact, and his head aches even more than it did before. He cuts the engine and sits still for a moment, stunned and a bit disoriented. His neck flares up with pain as well—whiplash.

The driver of the truck comes hurrying out and runs toward him, shouting apologies. "I'm so sorry, sir, oh Jesus Christ…! Are you okay?"

Arthur rolls down his window and shakily nods.

"Oh, fuck, you don't look so good. I-I'm calling the police, so hang on a sec. I-It's my first day on the job. I didn't mean to hit you. Never driven a truck this big before in my life. You can have all the free milk and cheese you want from the back—I don't know why I said that, it was so stupid."

This man's never-ending ramble isn't helping his fragile skull.

" _Yeah, hi, I just rear-ended a guy at a stoplight on Main Street and Tenth...He's awake_ …Uhh, okay…Sir? Are you feeling short of breath or anything?"

"No," Arthur murmurs, leaning his head against the back of his seat. Then, as if matters weren't already bad enough, he vomits into his own lap and ruins his  _favorite_  black trousers.

"…He just puked…All right, I'll tell him," the man who ran into him says into his phone before turning back to him. "Hey, they're gonna send the police and an ambulance, okay?"

Arthur grimaces, disgusted with himself. "No, no ambulance. I'm fine."

He'll give the police the information they need, go back home to clean up, and then try to make it back to work for his afternoon appointments at the very least.

He pulls his own phone out of his pocket to let his receptionist know that he's going to have to cancel all of the morning appointments due to a 'family emergency' but assures her he will be in by noon. By the time he's finished, the police have arrived—and  _damn it all to hell there's a bloody ambulance with them as well._

He undoes his seatbelt, tries his hardest to clean up by using a wad of napkins that he finds in the glove compartment, and resists the urge to retch again when an officer comes up to the window and swings the driver's door open.

"Sir, are you injured? Do you require medical assistance?"

"No," Arthur groans, but he must not sound very convincing because a paramedic takes the officer's place a moment later. He tries to get up to prove he's perfectly all right, but the paramedic holds a gloved hand against his chest and firmly keeps him down.

"No need to move, sir. Can you tell me your name?"

"Arthur Kirkland," he grumbles unhappily. Honestly, he knows himself, and he knows this is nothing to be making such a fuss over.

"And can you tell me where you are, Arthur?"

"Not at work," he complains, fidgeting in his seat because his neck is growing increasingly uncomfortable.

"Are you in any pain? Do you remember what happened?"

"I'm fine, and yes, the fool in the dairy truck drove into me."

"Did your head hit the steering wheel?"

Trick question. Obviously, he did, so this isn't something he can deny. If he confirms it, however, he will almost certainly be taken to a hospital for a CT scan.

He doesn't like doing this, but he doesn't have much of a choice at this point. He needs to play his cards right.

"I'm a medical doctor. I'll have a sore head for several days but will be fine. There's no need for any further intervention," he assures the paramedic, forcing himself to sit up a little straighter. He can see the truck driver rapidly speaking to the police in his mirrors.

"You should know better than anyone that it's better to be safe than sorry. You should get checked out," the paramedic counters, and Arthur's last ounce of patience evaporates.

"I'd like to be left alone, thank you. I don't want any medical assistance," he says, getting up this time even though the paramedic tells him not to.

Pain explodes through his neck and head, and he nearly keels over, legs feeling much wobblier and more unsteady than he expected them to be. As he's grabbing at his neck to rub away the discomfort, an EMT joins the paramedic, pulling a gurney over, and they carefully sit Arthur on it.

"Lie back, sir."

This is not going the way he planned. He wants to try standing again, but he also desperately wants to rest his head, so he reluctantly cooperates. He lies still and sinks into the gurney, suddenly feeling very heavy. The paramedic shines a light in front of his eyes and murmurs to his EMT partner, "He needs a neck brace."

Oh, no, they will  _not_.

Like a dog being put in the cone of shame, his head gets lifted gently against his will by the EMT, and then the paramedic wraps a dark blue neck brace around him before securing it with Velcro straps.

How humiliating.

Here he is, lying on a gurney with his neck immobilized. His trousers are ruined, his car is dented and will no doubt need to be towed and repaired, his patients are annoyed, and Francis is going to have his head—and well, he'll let him have it. He can't stand having this head any longer.

Before he gets carted into the back of the ambulance, he blinks through his blurry vision and mumbles, "Where do you gentlemen plan on taking me?"

When they respond with the name of  _his_ hospital, that's when the real humiliation sets in. Anywhere but there,  _please_. He can't allow his colleagues to see him like this.

His hand inches toward his cellphone again to call Francis, but then he second guesses himself and decides he'll let him know later—once all of the paperwork has been sorted and he has been discharged from the hospital. He doesn't want a frantic Frenchman sprinting into the emergency room. Besides, he doesn't deserve his husband's concern after how he's been treating him.

Best not to worry him.

* * *

**_London, 1980_ **

" _Patrick, I'm doing my best. All I ask is that you lend a hand."_

_"Lend a hand? I do more than lend a hand."_

_"This is your family, too, young man."_

_"That doesn't mean I should have to be responsible for everything!"_

Arthur, Alistair, and Dylan are huddled on the stairs, hiding in the shadows as their elder brother's voice grows more and more enraged.

_"You're the one who decided to have four children with an alcoholic bastard!"_

" _Don't you dare speak to me that way. I've raised you under this roof for sixteen years. The least you could do is give me the respect I deserve."_

_"Respect? Sorry, I've never experienced what that feels like before."_

_"You're not going anywhere for the next month. You can forget about playing on the football team and seeing your mates. You have three younger brothers who depend on you to be here."_

_"I'm not their fucking father! I hate all of you!"_

A plate breaks, and their mother swats at Patrick's rear with a rolled-up dishtowel. Patrick lets out a horrible noise that's something between a groan and a scream before stomping away toward the stairs and catching their eavesdropping trio.

He closes in on the nearest brother, which just so happens to be Arthur. He lifts him up by the collar of his shirt, slams him against the wall, and shouts, "He's never coming back, do you understand?" Then, he turns to the Alistair and Dylan to make sure they get the message as well. "Don't be  _fucking_ brats."

That glint of blind anger in Patrick's eyes…Arthur has seen it before in their father.

He learned from the best.

" _I can't wait to move out,"_ Patrick grunts before releasing Arthur, shoving past them, and trudging up to his and Alistair's room.

* * *

**_London, 1980_ **

Dylan is reading in his top bunk, and Arthur listens intently as the boy sounds out every word, admiring him for being able to read more complicated books. There's only a two-year difference between them, and yet, it still feels like Dylan is much older.

" _There is more in you of good than you know, child of the kindly West. Some courage and some wisdom, blended in measure. If more of us valued food and cheer and song above h-hoarded gold, it would be a mer-merrier world_ ," Dylan whispers to himself, but Arthur hears him perfectly. He stumbles and stammers on the bigger words, but he's still doing remarkably well.

Arthur closes his eyes, snuggled under the duvet of his bottom bunk to ward off the chill of the winter air (the heating has been turned off), and lets the words comfort him. He likes books. He wishes he were a better reader. This book— _The Hobbit_ —is all about dwarves, goblins, and dragons, which are all some of Arthur's favorite fantastical creatures. He tries to imagine a dragon dropping down in Westminster and how the great wizard, Gandalf, would come to rescue London.

Magic…What if he could learn to perform a few spells? His life would become loads easier.

"Dylan?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you know any magic?"

"No, I've never tried it."

"Do you want to try?" Arthur asks, suddenly feeling giddy.

"I've read about how to summon spirits. It's probably all rubbish though, and even if it's real, it's dangerous to bother the dead."

"How about we summon someone we know? Then, they wouldn't be bothered," Arthur suggests, mind racing with possibilities. "We could summon Aunt Agnes."

"Great Aunt Agnes?"

Arthur nods, then remembers Dylan can't see him from his top bunk, and murmurs, "Yeah."

"Okay, I think I remember what the book said. We'll need some salt and candles…We'll have to call Alistair to light the candles. You promise you won't get scared?"

"I promise."

"And you won't tell Mum?"

"I'm not stupid."

So, once the sun has started to go down, and it's dark enough that Arthur and Dylan can't see each other clearly without the lights on, they fill Alistair in on the situation, convince him to join in, and all huddle into a triangle on the rug. They have to hurry before Mum gets home.

Alistair starts lighting the candles and places them on the desk and by the window, and Dylan pours a circle of salt around them to create a barrier between them and any evil spirits. Then, they grab each other's hands, and Dylan makes a weird humming noise that he says is supposed to channel the ghost of Aunt Agnes.

"I'll be the medium. Everyone, take in a deep breath and clear your minds. Don't think about anything. Just focus on your breathing and the present moment we're in," Dylan orders, shutting his eyes and turning his chin up a little bit toward the ceiling. For a ten-year-old, he sounds very convincing and adult-like. "Spirits, allow me to be a channel so that I can convey any messages you may have. If there's anything you'd like to say, please give us a sign…"

"What a load of rub," Alistair grumbles, and Dylan elbows him in the ribs to get him to shut up and concentrate. "What makes ye think our Great Aunt Agnes wants to speak to ye?"

"Shhh!" Arthur hisses, squeezing his brothers' hands more tightly.

"We can't have negative energy in the circle, Alistair," Dylan warns. "I'm getting something…I see a young woman with red hair and blue eyes…"

"I don't believe ye."

"Oh, ye of little faith," Dylan whispers ominously.

"Now yer quoting the Bible."

The candle by the window flickers, and Arthur tenses up.

"Shh…Do you hear it? The music? It's Great Aunt Agnes's favorite song," Dylan says, and they all stay perfectly still and quiet, listening as hard as they possibly can.

Arthur thinks he hears it…It's a soft melody…A few notes on a piano.

"HELLOOOO, CHILDREN!" Dylan shrieks in a womanly voice, releasing their hands and standing up as though possessed by Aunt Agnes. He throws his arms out in front of him and walks toward his brothers with heavy feet like a zombie.

Arthur scrambles backward in horror, dragging Alistair with him.

"LOVELY TO SEE YOU ALL AGAIN. ARTHUR, MY HOW YOU'VE GROWN."

Arthur lets out an undignified squeak, and Alistair lets out a loud peal of laughter.

"Ye can stop now, Dylan," Alistair says in between hiccupping laughs and snickers. "I think yeh've scared him enough. He might wet himself again."

Arthur lets go of his brother's hand and frowns. "That wasn't very funny, and I'm not going to wet myself…"

"Ye should've seen the look on yer face," Alistair teases, still shaking with laughter, and Dylan is more than happy to join in. "How naïve."

"N-No! You both tricked me!" Arthur exclaims as a blush spreads across his face. "I-I hate you both!"

He aggressively blows out the candles and sweeps out of the room, needing space to sulk.

Lesson number two—never trust anyone.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s 8:16 AM. He’s lying in bed 12 of the ER, unable to lift his head to properly tell everyone off for how nonsensical all of this is. His pain level is on the rise, his stomach is grumbling from both hunger and displeasure, and his neighbor to his right keeps continuously moaning about how he needs his morphine. The curtain separating their two beds does little to drown out the noise. He’s just gotten off the phone with the insurance company and found out where his car is being towed. It can’t get much worse.

A police officer comes in and asks him some questions about the accident and gathers some of his contact information—says they’ll be in touch to confirm what’s been written in the report. He doesn’t stay for much longer because, apparently, Arthur has been deemed too incapacitated to provide any more answers until he’s been seen to.

He glares at his watch. He has less than four hours to get back to his patients. He’s very tempted to tear off his neck brace, storm over to the nurses’ station, and demand to be discharged, but then his RN for the day comes in—Mary.

He knows her well. How could he not? She’s renowned. Mary is by far the most experienced nurse on staff. Sixty-two-years old and standing at five feet and four inches, she may not seem like a force to be reckoned with, but the staff knows not to get on her bad side—something many interns have had to learn the hard way. She could retire if she wanted to, but she isn’t herself if she’s not practicing medicine, and so, she has been with the team for over thirty-five years. She has earned herself the nickname “Mother Mary” for her exceptional bedside manner and maternal temperament. 

Around Mary, he’s not “Dr. Kirkland.” He’s simply Arthur. She refers to everyone by their first name, regardless of title.

“Lord have mercy, Arthur,” she says when she sees him. “What happened?”  
  
He groans and raises a hand to touch his sore head. “Had a bit of an accident…”

“I can see that, dear,” she huffs before taking his blood pressure—142 over 90, not his best. “Head and neck injury, clearly. Anything else hurt?”  
  
“Just my patience.”  
  
Mary smiles sympathetically at him and stuffs a thermometer into his mouth before saying, “Well, it sounds like it could have been more serious, so you can consider yourself lucky…Just relax. We’ll get this sorted out.”

She takes the thermometer back—97.8 degrees Fahrenheit, normal.  
  
“There’s really no need for this. I’ll be fine,” he says for what feels like the hundredth time today, despite how pathetic he knows he must look. “I’m perfectly well enough to be discharged with some ibuprofen.”

Mary frowns down at him and shines a penlight at his eyes. “You know the routine—x-ray, CT scan, and bloodwork. If all of that comes back fine, you’ll be free to go, but until then, take it easy. You were in a car accident—that warrants a break. I know this is a lot to ask of a physician like yourself, but it looks like you’re going to have to temporarily accept your new role as an ordinary, lowly patient,” she says teasingly.

He begins to protest, but he is rudely interrupted by none other than Dr. Gilbert Beilschmidt, one of the hospital’s pediatricians and an old colleague, who, God knows why, has decided to pay him a visit.

“Well, look who it is! Kirkland! Heard you were in a car accident…Shit, did you fracture your neck?” Gilbert asks, standing on the opposite side of his bed, across from Mary. As always, he is full of loud enthusiasm and self-adoration.  
  
Arthur can only sigh. “Beilschmidt, why are you here? I daresay I’m over the age of eighteen. You’re not needed.” 

“Everyone knows you’re here—or almost everyone. Congrats on being a trending topic. I decided to confirm the rumors for myself. Oxenstierna should be coming down to do a neuro evaluation, and someone from ortho will probably stop by, too.”

“I have patients to see,” Arthur reminds both Gilbert and Mary, trying not to sound too short and curt with them, but he really does have to get out of here as soon as possible.

“You’re getting an x-ray and CT scan before you can go anywhere or see anyone,” Gilbert states, parroting Mary from just a few moments ago. “Now be good and don’t give Mother Mary any trouble, okay?”  
  
“Oh, I already know he’ll be trouble,” Mary jokes, letting her eyes scan Arthur’s ragged figure from head to toe critically.

Arthur feels small in her presence. It’s truly as though he’s being scolded by his mother.

“All right, I’ll leave you to it, Mary. Let me know if either of you needs anything,” Gilbert says, turning around to make his way out.  
  
“Wait!” Arthur calls him back, embarrassed but fully aware that he needs to rely on someone else to help him out of this…particular predicament. “Would you mind terribly if I asked you to fetch the spare pair of scrubs and shoes in my locker? I need to change out of these damned clothes.”  
  
Gilbert shoots him a laidback grin and a thumbs-up. “Sure, no problem. What’s your code for the keypad? Don’t tell me it’s your birthday.”  
  
“It’s not…It’s Francis’s birthday—0714,” he murmurs lamely.

Gilbert doesn’t make a joke or another teasing remark, surprisingly enough. “Okay. Got it. I’ll be back in a bit.” 

“Thank you.”  
  
“ _Ja_ , you’re welcome. You’re lucky I’m so awesome.”  
  
He leaves, and Arthur is stuck with Mary bustling around him again.

“I’m going to get you a gown for now,” she announces.  
  
They’re just rubbing salt in the wound now, aren’t they?

* * *

**London, 1980**

_"I pray for a day when my children will listen to me..."_

Arthur frowns as his mother smears some kind of slimy goo into his hair and smooths it over his tousled blond locks. It smells funny—like lemon air freshener. The dark blue blazer and white pressed shirt his mother has dressed him in are terribly uncomfortable. The collar makes his neck itch, and the sleeves are too long. 

"Hold still, love. Nearly finished..."

He hates going to Sunday mass. He doesn't understand why they have to get dressed up just so they can sit in a wooden pew in a musty church for nearly two hours. He doesn't know most of the words to the hymns anyway, nor does he wish to learn them, so he spends most of the mass with his mouth half-parted, pretending to murmur prayers and follow along when he'd rather be anywhere else.

"Patrick! We're leaving in a moment!" his mother calls up the stairs, patting down one last flyaway hair on Arthur's head before deeming him presentable.

_"I'm not going!"_

"Do. not. start. with. me."

_"You can't force me to."_

"I can force you to do whatever I please!" his mother huffs before sweeping up the steps and to wherever Patrick is. 

Arthur pities them both. His mother is at the end of her rope, as is to be expected considering most of her time is spent working or chasing after his brothers, and as for Patrick, he hasn't spoken to anyone in three months now, not even Alistair. He simply broods for most of the day and whispers to himself about how he's going to get far away from here—far enough that no one will bother to follow after him. He is impossible to be around—always yelling or fighting unless he has no choice but to do what their mother tells him to do, like when he runs Arthur's baths or carries groceries home.

Alistair, who is waiting by the front door with Dylan in a blazer that is just as ill-fitted as Arthur's, snickers, and says, "Save a prayer for Patrick. Mum said he needs to be sent to the Royal Navy to learn some discipline."

"You'd better hope she doesn't send _you_ to the Royal Navy," Dylan says under his breath, and Alistair smacks Dylan over the head in retaliation.

"I liked ye better when ye didn't talk back. Ye were cute once—a long, long time ago—but only for a few days." Dylan sticks his tongue out at him, and the two get into a small scuffle which only stops once their mother comes back down the stairs and into the foyer. Patrick comes trailing in after her, eyes downcast and face ragged with more emotion than his body can seemingly process.

"Right, then, is everyone ready? Wonderful, let's get going, shall we?" their mother asks as she adjusts her pink bonnet.

They are a picturesque family, or, at least, that's the part they play for a few hours each Sunday morning. When the other women ask what happened to James Kirkland, their mother will smile and feign serenity and joy as she lies through her teeth, "He's visiting his cousin—she's dreadfully ill." 

It is a story she can keep telling for only so long...

_"O Love that will not let me go,_

_I rest my weary soul in thee;_

_I give thee back the life I owe,_

_That in thine ocean depths its flow_

_May richer, fuller be,"_ the congregation sings in a droning crescendo alongside the rumble of the organ, filling the cathedral with the echo of their united voice.

* * *

 

He is spared what little dignity he has left when Mary steps out of the room for the time being and allows him to change without any assistance. At long last, he takes off the damned neck brace and slowly works his way out of his shirt. Getting into the ridiculous gown is a grueling process given the amount of pain he’s in, but once that’s taken care of, the hardest part is over. He deposits his clothes at the end of the bed and rubs at his head and neck some more, though it doesn’t seem to be doing him any good.

An orthopedic surgeon comes in—one of the new grads whom he has probably seen milling about but doesn’t know all that well.

Arthur reminds himself that he needs to be courteous, and so, he makes the effort not to toss in his own opinion about the severity of his injuries or the course of treatment that should be taken. He pretends to be an oblivious patient, allowing his head and neck to be turned painfully from side to side as his range of motion is assessed.

“Does that hurt?” the doctor asks as he has Arthur turn his head to the right once more.  
  
“Yes.”

“You’ve definitely got a strain. We’ll check for broken bones, but it’s probably just tissue damage.”

They won’t find any broken bones. He’s fine. He’s sure of it, but he has to appease this doctor if he wants to leave, so he consents to an x-ray. Much to his chagrin, the orthopedic surgeon decides to put the neck brace back on, and thus, he’s back to where he started.

He waits about twenty minutes for the x-ray and another hour for the doctor to come back to discuss the results with him. In that timeframe, Mary gets him on an IV to give him some pain medication and fluids (he’s apparently dehydrated), draws his blood, and brings him the spare pair of scrubs and shoes that Gilbert procured.

10:01 A.M. Why is this taking so long?

The orthopedic surgeon confirms he doesn’t have any fractures, which isn’t a surprise. His presence gets replaced by Dr. Oxenstierna, who arrives to take a history and do a full neurological assessment of him, as Gilbert claimed he would. Fortunately, it turns out he isn’t displaying any signs of a concussion. The pain medication has quelled his headache, so he just has to endure the CT scan and he’ll be out of here.

Oxenstierna is nearly finished examining him when he suddenly furrows his brows. “You mentioned you had a headache this morning. Was that before the accident?”  
  
Arthur blinks his tired eyes and nods. “Yes—just a migraine…”

“Do you have a history of migraines?”  
  
“Recently, I’ve been having them more frequently.”  
  
“How frequently? Twice a week?”  
  
Arthur clears his throat uncomfortably. “…Almost every day for four weeks.”  
  
“That sounds…worrisome. Have you seen anyone about this?”  
  
“No…I’m not sure I want an answer, to be entirely honest.”  
  
“All right. Someone should take you for the scan shortly. We’ll discuss this once we have the results.”

* * *

 

**_London 1980_ **

“Be careful and mind the uneven ground here.” 

George snickers at his father’s word of warning, hops over a small tree stump, and says, “This is easy!”

“Deceivingly so. Stop that, or you can wait for us in the car,” George’s father scolds the boy again, giving him a firm look.

George gives a great sigh, slouches his shoulders and spine, and huffs, “M’sorry.”

He frolics back to Arthur’s side, kicks a pebble out of their way as they continue along the path, and asks, “Arthur? You’re quiet. Are you okay?”  
  
Arthur’s just a bit stunned, that’s all. He didn’t expect to be invited to go hiking by George’s father. He’s never done anything like this before—not that anyone in his family would ever have the time to bring him here anyway. His mother gave him permission to go as long as he promised to be on his best behavior, and so, Arthur doesn’t want to do anything remotely disobedient and be told they have to go home. He may not get another opportunity to do something like this for a very long time.  
  
And that’s how he found himself here, on The Holly Trail in Chingford, marching through damp soil and long stretches of seemingly endless plains of grass. It’s quiet here—the total opposite of the center of London. 

George’s father is every bit as nice and personable as Arthur imagined him to be. He’s clearly an academic—the way he speaks about and describes the terrain makes that very clear. It’s as though there isn’t a question in this world that the man wouldn’t be able to answer. He’s funny and witty but knows how to be stern when needed.

Familiar anger and envy bubble up in Arthur’s gut again. George has no idea how fortunate he is. Arthur would do anything for a family like his. He’s well-off, lives in a nicer, bigger house, and doesn’t have any siblings that push him around.

“I’m fine,” he whispers.

George’s father turns around to look at him, brown eyes locking with his, and asks, “Are you sure? We can turn back if you’re not feeling well.”  
  
Arthur vigorously shakes his head, but he can’t stop the tears that are pooling in his eyes. _Don’t cry, stupid idiot_ , he tells himself. He closes his eyes and tries to pretend he’s just rubbing at them because they’re itchy but that doesn’t work either.

George’s father tuts his tongue and kneels down beside him, one hand on his shoulder. “It’s all right. Please don’t be upset. Tell us what’s wrong. Do you want to leave?”  
  
“N-No,” Arthur sobs, hating every part of his body for breaking down like this. _Silly, childish Arthur. Always crying. Always making a fuss. Such a fragile little boy. A sensitive soul. How will he ever survive in this world?_  

“Are you tired? Hungry? Thirsty?” 

“No.”  
  
George’s father frowns, fishes around for something in his pocket, and then pulls out a handkerchief, which he then offers to Arthur. “Then, what is it, love?”  
  
The kindness—it’s killing him.  
  
“I-I’m s-sorry,” Arthur stutters, pressing his face into the handkerchief. It smells faintly of cologne and pine trees.

“For what?”  
  
“For crying.”  
  
“It’s okay to cry…We’ve almost circled around. A little farther and we’ll be at the café. We can have lunch there,” George’s father says softly, squeezing his shoulder again. And Arthur isn’t sure how he does it, but somehow, he seems to know…Or, he knows more than he’s letting on. “Okay?”

Before he has the chance to hesitate and think twice, Arthur grabs onto the hem of the man’s coat and hugs him meekly, and, to his surprise, the man returns the gesture and gives him a strong pat on the back.  
  
George is so very lucky.

* * *

He gets taken for the CT scan and is brought back at exactly 10:45 AM.

This time, he doesn’t have to wait an hour to hear the results. As Mary is setting him up on another bag of fluids and commenting on how he doesn’t look quite as pale as he did earlier, Oxenstierna comes back.

Immediately, Arthur can sense something isn’t right.

“Mary, could you give us a moment?” Oxenstierna asks.

“Of course. I’ll be back in a few minutes.”  
  
Oxenstierna sighs, looks Arthur in the eyes, and then looks away, lips pursed. “There’s something you need to know.”

“…That bad?” Arthur surmises, and he doesn’t budge an inch. For the first time all day, he is frozen in place and completely cooperative.

* * *

 

**_London 1980_ **

“Noooooo!” 

“You’re being ridiculous. Boys your age don’t behave this way,” Mum explains, patience thinning.

“You’re making a fuss over nothing.”  
  
“Noooo!” Arthur continues to shriek as his mother tries to lead him down the hall of the pediatrician’s office and into one of the exam rooms. He digs his heels into the floor and tries to resist, but his mother is able to lift him a few inches off of the ground and carries him inside, shutting the door behind them with a final click.

“Have a seat on the table,” she instructs.  
  
“Noooo!”

Before they can keep arguing, the doctor comes in—a scrawny man with round, thick glasses and hair the color of apricots. He appears chipper and friendly, but Arthur knows better than to fall for his charming smile. He’s going to give him an _injection_ , which is one of the worst things that could happen to an eight-year-old child. The records show he has missed an MMR booster vaccine. If he missed it, then he missed it. It shouldn’t mean he has to get it now! That’s not fair.  
  
“Hello, Arthur, it’s always a pleasure to see you,” the doctor says, putting a hand on his head and ruffling his hair. “Why don’t you sit down for me?” 

Arthur whimpers and sniffles instead of moving, so the doctor picks him up and seats him on the table himself.

“I’m not ill,” Arthur insists, hoping this will help in his defense.  
  
“What brings you in today?” the doctor asks, turning to his mother this time.

“He’s due for a vaccination, and he has a rash on his back,” Mum tattles on him, and he can’t believe she would betray him like this.  
  
“I’m not ill!” Arthur screeches again.

To his credit, the doctor remains as patient as ever and gives him a reassuring smile. “I know, but you’ll feel much better once we get that rash sorted, and the vaccination will prevent you from becoming ill in the future—it’s important.”  
  
“Noooo!”

“It’ll be all right,” the doctor promises as he puts on a pair of gloves. Then, he takes hold of Arthur’s green shirt and carefully pulls it up to his shoulders to reveal his back. He runs a hand over the little crimson bumps on Arthur’s skin and asks, “Does this itch at all?”

Arthur reluctantly nods.

The doctor hums and pulls up the front of his shirt as well, checking his stomach. Sure enough, there are a few red patches there as well.  
  
“It looks like an allergic reaction. Perhaps it’s the laundry powder or liquid you’ve been washing his clothes in…No, don’t scratch, Arthur, it’ll just make it worse.” 

His mother frowns. “It’s the same one I’ve always used.”  
  
“Sometimes children can develop an allergy over time. It doesn’t look viral. I’ll put some cream on it and give him an antihistamine. If it clears up, we’ll know it was an allergy…How does that sound, Arthur?” 

Arthur mumbles grumpily, “Okay.”  
  
The doctor has him swallow some medicine, but it doesn’t taste as foul as he expected it to.

Then, something cold touches his back, and it’s the doctor’s gloved hand rubbing the cream onto the bumpy rash. Almost immediately, the itchiness that has been plaguing him all day abates. It’s a relief, and he can’t help but sigh contentedly when the cream gets put on his stomach as well.

The doctor pulls his shirt back down and disposes of his gloves in order to replace them with a new pair. “Does that feel better?”  
  
Arthur nods again, still relishing in the cool, soothing feeling of the itchiness getting sucked away. 

“Lovely. Now, let’s take care of that vaccine so you can go home. I’ll be only a moment,” the doctor says before leaving to collect some supplies.

“Just a little longer, love,” Mum assures, but Arthur is still petrified by the thought of the injection.

As soon as the doctor returns, and he catches sight of the needle, he has the urge to screech for help again. 

His mother puts a hand on his knee and tells him it will be fine, but that’s what she has to say. She can’t admit it’s going to hurt.  
  
“Hold still and relax your arm, pet,” the doctor tells him, rolling up the left sleeve of his t-shirt. He disinfects a spot two inches below his shoulder with a cold alcohol swab.

Mum tries to distract him by placing a kiss on his nose and whispering sweet things to him, and oddly enough, it’s nice…He isn’t used to this kind of affection from her. 

“Just look at me darling,” she says, cupping his cheek with one hand, and Arthur flinches when he feels the needle. He makes a pitiful noise, but it’s all over a second later, so he settles down fairly quickly.

“Here’s your plaster,” the doctor says warmly, covering the little red spot. Then he opens a drawer and says, “You can pick whichever lolly you want.”  
  
“The green one,” Arthur says with a final sniffle, pointing to it.  
  
The doctor hands it to him, ruffles his hair once more, and helps him down from the exam table. “All better?”

Arthur hastily pulls the lollipop out of its plastic wrapper and nods.

“I daresay he’s getting better at this. Last time, it took over an hour to calm him,” his mother tells the doctor wearily before thanking him.

 The doctor laughs and shrugs his shoulders. “He’s tough. You can’t deny that.”

* * *

 

“…There’s a mass—frontal lobe. About three centimeters in diameter. Appears to be a meningioma, which might fortunate, seeing as ninety percent of meningiomas are benign. Now, you know this already, but this isn’t cause for panic. Sometimes treatment isn’t required if the tumor isn’t growing or causing problems, but since you’ve been having symptoms, that gives me a reason to believe it will require treatment of some sort sooner or later.”  
  
The words reach Arthur’s ears, but he doesn’t register them with any emotion—only clinical intrigue. “If I’ve had headaches only in the past four weeks, then it’s growing quickly.”  
  
“Not necessarily. It may have been growing for years but went unnoticed because you were asymptomatic,” Oxenstierna explains. “Typically, we wait and monitor it. If another CT scan later reveals that it’s grown, then surgery and/or radiation would be needed, but since you’ve been experiencing intense migraines, I think it would make sense to start exploring treatment options now. Radiation therapy could cause it to shrink and your symptoms could disappear. Then, it could be monitored for any changes down the line… Look, I know this is a lot to take in right now. You were just in a car accident.”  
  
He’s not sure what he’s feeling right now—if he’s feeling anything. 

“I’ll prescribe you some stronger pain medication for the migraines. Take some time to think things through and rest. Then, when you feel ready and have thought things through, call and make an appointment and we can figure out the next steps. We’ll discharge you when you finish those fluids…Do yourself a favor and stay off your feet for a few days…Do you have any questions for me right now? Or maybe you just want to talk…?” 

“No, it’s all right.”

“Maybe you’d like to talk to Mary or someone else? Someone from oncology?”  
  
“No, it’s fine...”  
  
“…Please don’t hesitate to let me know if you need anything, okay? I mean it, Arthur. Is anyone coming to pick you up?”

“No.”  
  
“You shouldn’t drive with the pain meds in your system.”

He can’t drive anyway. His car has been towed.  
  
“I’ll take the bus.” 

Oxenstierna bites the inside of his cheek and looks like he wants to say more but doesn’t. He simply sighs and leaves.

Arthur rips the neck brace off once more, tosses it to the end of the bed, and sits up. He disconnects his IV line, changes into his scrubs, and then stores the soiled work clothes he was wearing during the accident in a plastic bag Mary had the foresight to leave him. He slips on the white trainers Gilbert also brought, painfully bends over to tie the laces, and then tests the strength of his legs by standing up.

He’s all right. A little sore here and there, but better now that the painkillers have begun working.

“Arthur, _what_ are you doing?” Mary says, suddenly storming in. “Why did you touch your IV? The fluids aren’t finished yet.”  
  
“I’m sorry. You’ve been a darling, but I really must get going now,” he insists, yanking the medical tape off of his hand. 

“Stop, stop! You’re going to bleed everywhere. Sit down, and let me do this,” Mary sighs, batting at his hands and taking the IV catheter out of his vein for him. “Stubborn man…There. Wait, let me put a band-aid over it…All right.” 

“Thank you.”  
  
Mary sighs and some of her frustration dissolves. “I’ll be right back with the discharge forms. Don’t _touch_ or _do_ anything else until then.”  

* * *

 

The rumble of the bus’s engine nearly puts him to sleep, but he forces his eyes to stay open despite how much they are stinging and would very much appreciate a nap. He has responsibilities. It’s 11:45 AM, and he’s five minutes from his office, which means he’ll have a whole ten minutes to put his things down, collect his thoughts, and get back to work.

Even with the medication, his head and neck are still pulsating with pain. He’s feeling a little dizzy from it all, but it’s nothing he can’t handle. He has worked in worse conditions, and some minor aches and pains aren’t going to stop him.

He walks through the front door of the office, apologizes to the receptionist and to the patients who are already sitting in the waiting room, and hurries to the back room where his desk and computer are. He drops his things, takes out his stethoscope and otoscope from his bag, grabs the chart of the first patient that the receptionist has lined up for him, and calls them into one of the exam rooms.  
  
He sets the chart on the counter and flips it open to refresh his memory on the patient’s previous visits. He can barely read his own writing—everything is a little blurry around the edges, and his eyes struggle to focus.

He goes through his primary list of questions with the patient, scrawls down a few notes, and starts coming up with a treatment plan even though it feels like his head is screaming at him the entire time.

_On and off knee pain during physical activity for the past five months. Better with rest. Occasional swelling. Recommend RICE and refer to specialist._

It’s so mechanical to him now.

Next patient.

_Red, itchy right eye for a week. Not better with antihistamines. Exam suggests pink eye. Prescribe moxifloxacin ophthalmic drops. One drop 3 times a day into the affected eye for 7 days._

Next patient.

_Runny nose, 100.6-degree temperature, sneezing. Common cold. Bed rest and fluids. Follow up in 5 days if not better._

Next.

_Sore throat. 101.7-degree temperature. White spots on tonsils. Throat culture taken and sent to lab. Suspected strep. Prescribe 500 mg amoxicillin, two tablets a day for 10 days._

He’s about to go into the next exam room when his phone begins vibrating in his pocket. He returns to his office in the back room, shuts the door, and frowns at the caller ID–Francis.

“Hello?”

“What happened? If you start hiding things from me again, Arthur, I swear I will—"  
  
“What are you talking about?”

“Explain to me why a towing company just called the house phone to remind us to pick up your car.”

Damn. He was hoping they would call his mobile number, but they must have used the home number that they received from the insurance company.  
  
“I didn’t want you to worry…It’s a long story, Francis, and I need to get back to my patients. Everything is fine.”  
  
“Oh, no, you’re not getting out of this so quickly. Your patients can wait. I have time. Tell me what happened, right now. Or I will come down to your office and ask in person.”

“I was rear-ended at a red light. It was minor. It’s being handled. That’s all.” 

Francis makes a furious noise and growls at him, “And you decided to wait to tell me about this? Are you okay? Were you injured? What about the other driver? What kind of car hit you?”  
  
“I’m fine. It was an idiot in a dairy truck.”  
  
“A truck? You were hit by a truck! You didn’t think this was important to tell me? _Mon Dieu_ , Arthur, please tell me you went to the hospital.”

“I did. Everything’s fine. I’m at work now.”  
  
“YOU’RE WORKING AFTER YOU WERE HIT BY A TRUCK? HAVE YOU LOST YOUR MIND?”

Arthur winces and holds the phone a foot away from his ear. 

“ABSOLUTELY NOT. CANCEL YOUR APPOINTMENTS. NOW.”

“Francis, don’t be—”  
  
“NOW, ARTHUR.”

“All right! Stop shouting for god’s sake!” 

“I’m coming to pick you up from work, and then you’re going to tell me _exactly_ what happened. Be ready to leave in an hour.” 

“Okay.”  
  
He stuffs his phone back into the pocket of his scrubs and sighs. He did not drag himself all the way here just to go home now. He’s going to finish taking care of the people in the waiting room, at least.  
  
Next patient.


	4. Chapter 4

**London, 1981**

At the start of the new year, George comes into school with a shining new set of metal braces. He explains that they’re meant to straighten his teeth and wants to leave it at that, but Arthur has too many unanswered questions that he can’t bear not to have addressed. Did it hurt getting them put in? How long does he have to keep them in for? Has it become harder to eat? How does the orthodontist put them in anyway? Did it take a long time?

“I don’t want to talk about it,” George mutters, head hanging low over his history textbook.

“Why not?”   
  
“Because everyone’s going to laugh at me now.”   
  
“No, they won’t. Why would they laugh?”  
  
“I look horrible.” 

“I don’t think so. I like your braces.” 

George wipes at his puffy eyes with his sleeve and meets Arthur’s honest gaze. “You mean it?”   
  
Arthur nods and shoots George a smile. “They make you look stronger.”

But apparently, Arthur is the only one who thinks this way, as the rest of the class mercilessly teases George from then on. They begin to spread rumors that the braces are a sign that he has a contagious disease, and that if anyone gets too close, they’ll catch his crooked teeth, too. The other boys throw wadded up paper balls at him in the hallway, flaunt their brace-free teeth at him, and snicker whenever he walks past.

“Don’t listen to them,” Arthur tells George at least three times a day, but he knows it’s starting to really affect the boy. He’s struggling to eat his lunches, and his conversations with Arthur keep getting shorter and shorter. “Maybe we should tell—”

“No! We can’t tell anyone. Then, I’ll just get made fun of even more.”   
  
“Okay.”

But Arthur knows he must do something. He can’t just allow his friend to suffer in silence. So, the following week, he devises a plan to stand in solidarity with George. He wraps a rubber band around his top row of teeth and a second one along the bottom row, creating a fake set of braces for himself. When Mr. Hornsby asks him what in the world he has in his mouth, he makes up an excuse that it’s for a valid medical reason and walks around with them in for the whole day, opening himself to the same ridicule George receives.   
  
George calls him an idiot but fondly snorts with laughter whenever Arthur flashes his modified teeth at him. He starts acting more like himself again, and for a while, Arthur believes that things will go back to normal.

Until a week later, one of the boys in the class above them, Jacob, starts bothering George while they’re outdoors for recess. And well…That’s the final straw.

Arthur doesn’t know where he finds the strength or courage to stand up to the boy on George’s behalf, but he does. He slams his fist directly into the bridge of Jacob’s nose, sending the nine-year-old reeling backward and screaming for help.

It all happens so quickly. Arthur barely draws his fist back and glances at George’s wide eyes when his ear is suddenly swept up by Mr. Hornsby and he gets painfully pulled into the school. He gets a beating, which is to be expected, and then is brought to the principal’s office. He isn’t asked to explain himself or recount his side of the events. After all, Jacob never raised a finger at him, so Arthur is assigned the full blame.

He doesn’t cry, apologize, or ask for forgiveness. In fact, he’s not the least bit sorry for what he did. He would do it again if given the chance.  
  
Even after the bell for dismissal rings, the principal doesn’t allow him to leave—he wants to speak with whoever is picking him up from school.

Of course, if the man is hoping to speak with his mother, he’s going to have to wait a very long time, as she won’t be out of work for another couple of hours.  
  
Unsurprisingly, Alistair and Dylan come looking for him, and they both already seem to know what happened—word spreads fast.

 

What _is_ surprising is that Patrick is with them.

 

Patrick shakes hands with the principal, introduces himself, and acts very grown-up about the whole situation. The two of them talk for what seems like a very long time while Arthur just sits there, staring at his shoes and swinging his feet back and forth. 

Then, finally, Patrick grips his upper arm firmly, pulls him out of his chair, and says, “Come. We’re going home. Starting to pull the same stunts as Alistair, huh? You think it’s funny? You think it makes you seem tough?”   
  
“Hey!” Alistair protests.  
  
“Shh. I’m not talking to you,” Patrick snaps, turning his full attention back to Arthur, dragging him along as he strides forward and out the main doors of the school. “Don’t start playing these games with me, Arthur. I’ve had enough from all of you.”   
  
“It wasn’t a game,” Arthur huffs. “And stop—you’re pulling too hard!”   
  
Patrick stops in his tracks and furrows his brows at him. “What is that in your mouth?” 

Arthur’s cheeks flush pink, and he quickly slams his mouth shut. He barely parts his lips to mumble, “Nothing. You wouldn’t understand.”   
  
“What is with children these days? I was never this strange.”

* * *

 

He has just finished seeing to the last patient when Francis comes sweeping in through the door and into the waiting room, looking eerily calm compared to how furious he sounded on the phone. It’s a little unsettling, and Arthur nearly slips past him to go and hide in the back for a few minutes, but sharp blue eyes jump into his direction and catch him.  
  
_“Arthur.”_  

He takes a deep breath and reluctantly steps toward his husband. “Yes?”   
  
“Are you ready to leave?” 

“I just need to collect my things.”   
  
“Okay.”   
  
Arthur takes that as a cue to move, and he’s a little flustered when Francis starts following him down to the end of the hall and into his office. He pretends Francis isn’t watching his every move and places his stethoscope and otoscope back into his messenger bag. He gathers a few documents and folders that he might need to look at later, shuts off the computer, and carefully puts his coat on, trying not to wince as he pushes his arms through the sleeves. He makes a motion to sling his bag over his shoulder, but Francis takes it from him with a shake of the head.   
  
“No. I’ll carry this…The car is right outside.”   
  
Well, then…This is awkward and uncomfortable. Remind him to never _not_ tell his husband about being hit by a car again.

The receptionist has already left, so Arthur makes sure everything is properly locked and closed before they head out. He was expecting more of a frantic display from Francis than this, and he isn’t sure how to react to how composed he seems to be. 

Francis unlocks the car, but before Arthur can walk around to get into the passenger’s seat, Francis calls him back, rushes forward, and hugs him very gently.

“You want to scare me to death sometimes, don’t you? Please, tell me the truth, are you okay?”   
  
Arthur swallows against the boulder in his throat and closes his eyes. “No...”   
  
The steady movement of Francis’s chest as he breathes is soothing, and Arthur feels incredibly drowsy again, wishing they could just stay here forever, pressed up against one another.  
  
Francis brushes the hair off of his forehead with a soft hand and takes a good look at him. “Tsk…Your forehead, _mon amour_ …It’s bruising. Did you hit the steering wheel?”   
  
Arthur nods even though his neck hurts because talking is too much effort suddenly.  
  
“You look completely exhausted. You should sleep once we’re home. The girls won’t be back from school for another two hours, so you’ll have some peace and quiet… Don’t worry about a thing—I’ll take care of everything with the insurance company and your car,” Francis says, escorting him into the passenger’s seat and closing the door for him before circling around to the driver’s seat.

He gets the car started and pulls out of the parking spot before he continues asking questions. “What did they say at the hospital?” 

“I’ll be in pain for a few days…I just have a neck strain and some minor head trauma.”  
  
“No concussion, broken bones, or permanent damage?”   
  
“No.” 

Francis lets out a relieved sigh. “Good. That’s most important. Did they give you anything to take?”   
  
“Some pain medication.”   
  
“Okay. Make sure you take it, all right?”

Arthur nods again.  
  
“You must not be feeling well, but we’re going to have to talk about this later. You know that none of this is your fault and I’m not upset with you because of the accident, yes?”

Nod.   
  
“I’m upset with you because you tried to hide it from me. You know we’re supposed to tell each other everything. You always say communication is key—and well, you haven’t been communicating as of late.”   
  
“I know…I’m sorry.”

“I want you to know you can trust me, and I’m here for you. We do things together. We’re partners. You’re never alone,” Francis reminds with a little smile, wiggling the wedding band on his ring finger. “I love you and if you need help, I _want_ to help you.”   
  
This conversation is too deep for Arthur’s spinning mind to handle right now, but he knew this was coming.

“Francis, there are just…There are some things that I’m not sure how to talk about yet. It’s not that I don’t trust you or love you.”  
  
“But if you tell me, then we can figure it out together. You don’t have to deal with it by yourself.”   
  
“It’s…difficult. It’s not like what you probably think it is.”   
  
“Don’t tell me you’re cheating on me?”   
  
For the first time that day, Arthur’s face creases with a smile and he laughs, even though it makes the ache in his neck flare up. Of all the questions he was expecting Francis to ask, that was not one of them. The mere thought that Francis’s biggest concern has been that he’s unfaithful, is somehow so endearing and amusing. 

“Judging by your reaction, I’m going to assume you’re still monogamous.”

Arthur, still laughing, clears his throat and says, “You’ve nothing to worry about—you have my word in that regard.”

Francis chuckles as well. “Good. I’m relieved…Well, whatever it is, I’m here to listen, but we don’t have to talk about it now. You need to rest.”

“I don’t think rest will make much of a difference,” Arthur grumbles, massaging his neck for the hundredth time. 

“It definitely wouldn’t hurt. I can tell just by looking at you how rundown you are. A day or two in bed is just what you need.”

They’re approaching the house. Francis pulls into the driveway, and it’s odd not seeing his own car standing next to Francis’s.

“Thank you, love,” Arthur sighs, allowing himself to be a little sentimental. He undoes his seatbelt and gets out of the sedan, swaying a little. The pain medication is really taking its toll on him now.

“Never a problem,” Francis replies, walking him to the front door and unlocking it. He promptly helps him inside, upstairs, and into their bedroom. “Sleep for a bit.”  
  
“I need to take a shower and change first.”

“Need some help? Be careful with your neck…Here…”

Francis cautiously guides him out of his scrub top, being slow and gentle, and Arthur is suddenly filled with lust for him. After the disastrous day he’s had, he wants nothing more but to be in bed with his husband, arms looped around one another and not caring about the outside world. 

But then Francis finishes undressing him, presses a feathery kiss to his temple, and says, “Call me if you need anything or feel unwell. When I come back in here later, I want to see you resting.”   
  
“All right.”   
  
“Love you.”   
  
“Love you, too, and I’m sorry for being an arse.”   
  
Francis grins and gives him another kiss—on the lips this time. “Don’t worry about it. I understand you’re going through a lot. Just take care of yourself more.”

He doesn’t deserve to be treated so kindly. He’s an awful person. Why Francis hasn’t asked for a divorce yet is beyond him.

He slugs his aching body into the shower, lets the hot water soothe his strained muscles, and is pleased to find that his head feels a bit less full. The pain medication has made everything appear a little fuzzy, and the throbbing desire for closeness returns—he wants Francis nearby.

He grabs the bottle of tea tree body wash that Francis uses and works it into a lather in his skin, calmed by the familiar scent.

Keeping this up is impossible. He needs Francis—needs someone. Why is he so afraid of reaching out? Of saying he needs someone to love him right now because it feels like he’s slipping faster and faster…? 

Because he’ll hurt Francis if he says something. He can’t do that to him. He’ll cry. He’ll fuss over him every day and insist he stops working and stays home…Everything would change. Nothing would feel normal anymore, and right now, work is still the only facet of his life that still feels routine and safe.  
  
The girls would find out. He would no longer be just their father. He’d be their _ill_ father. They would skirt around him—be afraid of talking to him and telling him about their own problems. If word of his condition gets out, his family will never be the same.

He doesn’t want that. He’d rather be alone and push everyone away. He’s protecting them for as long as possible until there’s no way to conceal it any longer. If he makes a full recovery, they’ll never have to find out. It’s a slim possibility, but a possibility nonetheless.

He turns off the water and steps out of the shower, the smell of Francis’s body wash still lingering in the air.  
  
He’s made up his mind.

They can _never_ know.

* * *

 

 _“That’s very sweet of you, mes chéries. I think he’s still asleep.”_  
  
“Is he going to be okay?”   
  
“He should be.”

_“Is there anything we can do to help?”  
_

Arthur groans softly and lifts his head off of his pillow, interested in the whisperings taking place just outside of the bedroom. Someone has tucked a sherpa blanket around him—Francis, no doubt. The painkillers have started to wear off, and he’s feeling fairly miserable, if he’s going to be entirely honest. His head feels ridiculously heavy, and his neck is as stiff as a wooden board.

The door comes cautiously creeping open, revealing Francis and the girls checking in on him. Amelia and Madeline are on either side of their papa, anxiously trying to steal a peek.

“I’m awake. You can stop gossiping in the hallway now,” Arthur announces, sitting up and leaning against the headboard behind him.

“Dad, you’re alive!” Amelia jokes, immediately coming in and hurrying over to the bed. “You okay? Hungry? Still tired?”

“I’m better now. How was school?”

“I got a ninety on my Spanish quiz.” 

“I’m glad to hear that. Well done.”   
  
“Thanks, but enough about me! How are _you_? Papa said you got hit by a truck!”   
  
“Everything’s all right now. It was minor, really.” _  
  
_ Francis scoffs and comes in as well, followed by Madeline. “Don’t listen to your father, girls. He thinks everything is insignificant...What would you like to eat, _mon amour_? It’s almost time for dinner, and I made fish if you’re feeling well enough for it.”   
  
“That’s fine, thank you,” Arthur assures, and, against his will, he starts to feel his body slide down a little, too weary to keep sitting up, but he plays it off well and makes it look intended. He turns to Madeline and manages a small smile, “And how are you, love?”   
  
“We’re all okay, Dad. We’re just worried about you. Papa told us everything—and how you went to work afterward,” Madeline murmurs, nibbling her bottom lip and furrowing her brows at him. “You shouldn’t have done that.”   
  
“Yeah, it was really stupid. Doctors are so stubborn,” Amelia adds, looking just as disappointed in him.

Since when did it become okay for his children to lecture _him_?  
  
“See, at least our girls have more sense than you do,” Francis teases him with a brief kiss on the cheek. “I’ll bring you dinner in bed…Watch him for me, girls, and make sure he doesn’t strain himself any further.”

Francis steps out, and the girls climb up onto the bed on either side of him, trying to come up with ways to brighten his mood. 

I saw Mrs. Davis today,” Amelia says as she absently starts adjusting the yellow barrette in her hair. “She said to thank you for the advice you gave her for her arthritis.”

“Are her hands still bothering her?” 

“Not as much.”   
  
“That’s good,” he murmurs, surrendering to the urge to set his head back down on his pillow. He feels as though he could easily sleep for another three hours. In fact, his eyes almost involuntarily flutter shut until he catches sight of something…peculiar. A red and purple blemish on Amelia’s neck catches his attention. “What is that?”  
  
“What’s what?” Amelia asks, backing away a little.

  
Oh…

 _Oh, it had better not be!_  
  
He’s awake now. Awake and livid.   
  
A rush of energy courses through him as he sits up once more and uses his left hand to brush some of Amelia’s hair to the side and away from her neck…It’s as he suspected—his daughter has a hickey. Or a love bite, in more eloquent terms.   
  
“Who have you been kissing? Or rather, who has been kissing you?”

“W-What—? No one!” Amelia shouts, instantly becoming defensive while Madeline’s face alights with amusement. She covers the little bruise with her hand and frowns. “I just hit myself, okay?”   
  
“On the side of your neck?”   
  
“Yeah.”   
  
“I find that hard to believe.”   
  
Madeline snorts from the other side of the bed and clears her throat, trying to suppress a snicker. “He’s a senior, Dad.”

“Really now?” Arthur asks, still looking directly at Amelia and expecting some kind of explanation. “Do tell.”  
  
“He’s already been left behind once. His grades are terrible. He’s on the swimming team but doesn’t show up to practice half the time,” Madeline continues to supply, as though she has been waiting with bated breath for this very moment for a long time.

Amelia is now as red as a tomato. “Shut up, Maddie.”

“Don’t be rude to your sister,” Arthur interjects, blood boiling. “You’re grounded. This fascination with this boy who is clearly a bad influence on you stops now.”

“He’s not a bad influence!”   
  
“Yes, he is,” Madeline whispers, just loud enough so only Arthur hears.

“Why doesn’t everyone just mind their own business?” Amelia seethes, on the verge of tears. “You just don’t understand!” she shouts, storming out.  
  
Arthur and Madeline can hear her enter her bedroom before she loudly slams the door shut so that the hallway rattles.  
  
Wonderful. Just what he needed.   
  
“I’m going to have to lecture her, aren’t I?” Arthur asks Madeline with a little sigh.   
  
“Yeah,” she agrees. “I wouldn’t have said anything if I didn’t think he was trouble, Dad.”   
  
“I know. Thank you for telling me. I’ll look into the matter—don’t fret.”   
  
“There’s something else you should know…He owns a bike—like a motorcycle—and Amelia’s been on it, without a helmet.”

He presses his hands into his eyes and quietly swears under his breath. The thought of _his_ daughter with some reckless, stupid boy and getting on his motorcycle (which he may not even be licensed to drive), makes him sick to his stomach once more. When he thinks about how foolish he was at that age…It’s a miracle he’s still alive and made it through adolescence somehow.

Francis returns, holding a tray of food, and he looks quite bewildered. “What was that racket? What happened?”   
  
“Our daughter is having a fling with a boy who is older than her, may very well not graduate high school, and owns a motorcycle,” Arthur clarifies as calmly as he can manage, and he, too, can’t believe the information that’s coming out of his mouth.

Francis sets the tray down in his lap, exchanges a horrified look with him, and says, “No…How? Why? _She’s grounded._ ”

“I’ve already taken the liberty to tell her that. She’s now moping in her room and thinks it’s wise to slam doors and be disrespectful.”   
  
“I’ll talk to her…No, no, don’t get up. Eat. I’m sorry she’s acting this way while you’re unwell.”   
  
“I’m fine. I’ll take her with me to the hospital next weekend. She’ll never dare to go near a motorcycle again,” Arthur promises, taking a bite of salmon even though he’s nauseous. He needs to eat something if he wants to be strong enough to function normally.

He turns his head to look at Madeline and frowns. “Are there any boys in your life that I should know about?”   
  
“No, not for now,” Madeline says with a sheepish smile.  
  
“Good. And if you must date, then please date someone who is sensible and has aspirations.” 

Francis laughs airily from the doorway. “As long as you don’t date anyone remotely similar to your father, you’ll be fine, Madeline.”

* * *

  **London, 1981**  
  
It is the beginning of the end. 

He loses his only friend, despite all of his efforts to hold onto him.  
  
After the incident with Jacob, Arthur is labelled an aggressive child, which is arguably worse than the status and title he held previously. Being from a problematic household and having emotional baggage is one thing but being regarded as violent and a danger to the other children in the classroom is much, much more serious.

George’s mother finds out about Arthur’s new reputation and instructs George to keep his distance. After all, a nice boy like George who has a bright future and is the son of two scholars shouldn’t be best mates with someone who is as poor of an influence on him as Arthur. 

And when Jacob tries to get vengeance by ambushing Arthur behind the school after the final bell with a group of his friends, who is there to stand up for him?   
  
No one.  
  
He is all on his own, so he must take every kick and punch. He darkly tells himself this reminds him of when his father would come home in the middle of the night. It feels like it’ll never end—it always felt that way—but eventually they’ll get tired of abusing him, that much he knows for certain.

  
He escapes with a split lip and a sore jaw. One of his bottom baby teeth falls out and hits the concrete ground with a tiny _tap_.

He finds Alistair and Dylan, trying his best not to cry when they start questioning him about what happened to his face.

Alistair puts a hand on his shoulder, spins him around to look him in the eyes, and asks, “Who did this?”   
  
He gives the names.   
  
“I’ll kill them,” Alistair declares. “Couldn’t win in a one-on-one fight, so he had to bring minions. Pathetic. I’ll fuckin’ kill ‘em…Chin up, Arthur. Don’t give them the satisfaction. Don’t cry.”   
  
Arthur touches his swollen lip and nods firmly. “I won’t.”   
  
“Hey, Alistair, is he talking about Jacob Wright? Victoria’s younger brother?” Dylan asks.  
  
“Yes,” Alistair growls, “but that doesn’t matter. I’ll still kill him.”   
  
Dylan chuckles and gives Arthur a careful pat on the shoulder. “No one messes with the Kirklands and gets away with it, not even Alistair’s girlfriend’s brother.”  
  
“That’s right,” Alistair approves, scratching the back of his auburn head of hair in frustration. “Never really liked Victoria anyway…She only talks about herself. Listen closely, Arthur—never have a girlfriend. They’re just a headache…And don’t pick at yer lip, it’ll make it worse.”

“How are we going to get back at them?” Dylan asks, clearly wanting to be a part of this scheming.  
  
Alistair hands Arthur a tissue to hold against his lip and says, “Watch and learn, brother. Watch and learn.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Amelia, open the door.”   
  
“No! Go away!”   
  
“I won’t ask again.”

“So don’t.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. She’s just testing him, and more shouting isn’t going to get him anywhere. He knows how he was at her age—always challenging authority, seeing how far he could run with his lies, getting into arguments with his mother, disappearing and not returning until dawn…He needs to talk about this with his daughter now, or God only knows the kind of trouble he’ll find her getting into months from now.

Clearly, she needs guidance, which is something his own adolescence often lacked. He didn’t have anyone to watch over him or take an interest in what he was doing, and he’s certainly not going to allow that to happen with Amelia. He’s going to set limits for her, and she’s going to follow them.

That also means he’s done standing outside of this door and pleading with her. He doesn’t have the patience nor the energy to keep this up.

He and Francis have a key to her bedroom, of course—they have keys for all of the doors in the house. He doesn’t enjoy having to use it, but it’s necessary for emergencies. While he wouldn’t normally reach for it in this kind of situation, he’s too drained to consider other alternatives.  
  
He gets the key from the drawer of the nightstand in the master bedroom and lets himself. As he expected, she starts shouting with greater fervor, appalled that he would do such a thing and claims, _it’s such an invasion of privacy, Dad_. And well, it is, but he feels he has every right to take away some of her privacy when it’s been proven that she’s hiding things from him.  
  
“Amelia,” he sighs again, holding his head as she continues to raise her voice. 

She looks over at him and quickly quiets, realizing she’s causing him pain by being so loud. She’s flushed with anger and embarrassment, but there’s a flash of pity for him in her eyes.

 _Don’t pity me. Don’t ever look at me that way_ , he thinks, and he can feel his pride take a particularly bad hit.   
  
“I just want to talk,” he assures her before taking a seat next to her on the bed and steeling himself for a heart-to-heart. “It’s never my intention to be stern with you without cause. I don’t want to see you unhappy. I also don’t want to see you be hurt by some boy who—”  
  
“You don’t even know him, Dad,” Amelia cuts in, frowning.  
  
“I know his type, and he’s going to try to drag you into—”   
  
“No, he won’t. You can ground me all you want. I’m not going to stop talking to him.” 

“You’ll do as I say.”   
  
“No.”   
  
“Getting involved with this boy may sound enthralling to you right now, but you won’t feel that way in the long-run.” 

“How do you know how I feel? You don’t know anything! You don’t even talk to any of us anymore!” Amelia says, shouting again and forgetting to keep her voice low. “You don’t talk to me, not like you used to. You don’t know me…You’ve been acting really weird— _it’s like you’re not even my dad anymore_.”   
  
That hurts. Hurts more than any meningioma or whiplash.

Tears wobble in Amelia’s eyes and stain her glasses as she whispers, “I heard you vomiting in the bathroom the other day. Papa says you don’t eat anything anymore. You look pale and sick, and you’re not telling anybody what’s going on. What’s happening to you?”  
  
He pulls Amelia into a hug, presses her head into his shoulder, and says, “I’m sorry, poppet. I didn’t mean to worry you. I promise everything will be all right.”  
  
She shudders against him between a soft sob and asks, “A-Are you dying?”   
  
“What? No, of course not,” he says, squeezing her more tightly. “What gave you that idea? Everything will be fine. You’re right, I’ve been feeling a bit under the weather as of late, but it’s nothing that can’t be fixed.”   
  
“Are you sure?”   
  
“Yes. It’s all under control.”

“I don’t believe you,” Amelia mumbles, pulling away from him so she can look into his eyes. “Why don’t you want us to know? You can tell me. I won’t tell Papa or Maddie if you don’t want me to. You _never_ trust me, Dad, but I’m not a little kid anymore. I could help.”  
  
“That’s not true, and I’m afraid there isn’t much you can do anyway, so there’s no need to concern yourself. I want to trust you to make sound decisions, but hearing about what you’ve been up to hasn’t reassured me that I can leave you to your own devices.”   
  
“Well, how am I supposed to tell you stuff about this guy if you won’t tell me what’s going on with you? Doesn’t seem fair.” 

Arthur crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m your father, and you’re my child—I expect you to communicate with me. The expectations I have of you are different from those you should have of me. I’m not your friend. I’m your parent.”   
  
“Yeah, but I expect you to communicate with me, too, ‘cause you’re my dad, and you’re _also_ supposed to be my friend, y’know…? And I don’t want anything to happen to you,” Amelia says shakily, wiping away her tears.

“Nothing’s going to happen to me.”   
  
“Promise?”   
  
“I promise.”   
  
“Okay. So, can I still talk to this guy if I tell you about him?”   
  
“No.” 

“Great. Good talk,” Amelia says sarcastically, and honestly, it’s a little frightening how she’s starting to sound like him… “Forget it.”   
  
He can’t leave things this way. He knows that, and he also knows that he’s in an uncomfortable situation now that Amelia has witnessed him being ill first-hand. Once again, nothing is going according to plan.  
  
But he’s deluding himself by thinking he can go through this alone…Maybe they could both gain something from this.

“Amelia…I could use a friend, but there’s something you have to promise me as well.”

She sits up very straight, puts her hands in her lap, and nods. “Anything.”   
  
Arthur gets up, shuts the door gently, walks back over to the bed once more, and says as quietly as he can, “You mustn’t discuss what I tell you with anyone else unless I say it’s okay—and this is imperative.”   
  
“Okay. I promise not to say anything.”   
  
He sighs and rubs his face. “Next—you mustn’t think any less of me.”   
  
“I won’t.”  
  
“Thirdly, you mustn’t get upset. Everything I’m going to tell you needs to be regarded with a certain amount of detachment. Do you think you can do that?”   
  
“What’s going on?”  
  
“I’m not going to tell you now…First, you’re coming to work with me at the hospital—there’s someone I’d like you to meet…I’ll tell you when the time is right. Lastly, if you’re going to promise me all of this, you must also promise never to speak to that boy you’ve been hanging out with again and to work hard in all of your classes—I expect at least a B in every course. Otherwise, how am I to trust your word?”   
  
“Okay, now you’re being _really_ weird,” Amelia huffs.  
  
“Do we have an agreement?”   
  
Amelia fiddles with the hem of her blouse, purses her lips, and finally murmurs, “Yeah, okay.”   


* * *

 

 

**London, 1981**

They start with a stakeout to determine the best time to strike. Mr. Wright doesn’t return home from work until about six in the evening. The Wright’s kitchen is near the back of the house, and Mrs. Wright normally starts cooking as soon as her five children are home from school and are playing in the street. That gives Arthur, Alistair, and Dylan a good opportunity to stir up trouble, and they can feel assured that by the time they get caught, the damage will have already been done because Mrs. Wright is unlikely to be alerted to any initial sounds of distress.

Alistair makes it clear that gentlemen don’t hit ladies, so they are to leave Victoria and her two sisters unharmed. Jacob and the one other Wright boy, Christopher, are fair game. Arthur and Dylan are to follow Alistair’s lead and do exactly as he says.

Their own mother is still at work, and Patrick likely couldn’t care less where they are right now—he’s been in a horrible mood all week and just wants to be left alone. Alistair claims he’s been skipping school and drinking with his friends, and frankly, that’s probably true.

Patrick doesn’t care about them. All he cares about is the school principal’s side of the story. He’s not who he once was, and so, it’s just the three of them now.  
Arthur takes a breath, follows Alistair and Dylan across the street, and feels his legs shake with anticipation and fear. What if they can’t take them on? Christopher is older than Alistair and taller. He could take them on, even if Jacob can’t.  
  
But Alistair doesn’t seem deterred. He goes right over to Jacob, grabs him by the front of his shirt, and roars, “Apologize, now!”   
  
Arthur licks his sore lip and shivers—remembering the flash of pain he felt when he was lying on the ground. 

Jacob’s nose is still discolored from when Arthur initially hit him for making fun of George. Seeing the purple-brown bruise is satisfying. It feels good to know that Jacob is familiar with what pain is. It’s because of him that Arthur lost his only friend. If he hadn’t made fun of George’s braces, Arthur wouldn’t have punched him, and everything would have been fine.  
  
“Alistair, what are you doing?” Victoria asks, taking a step forward, and Arthur must admit that, yes, she’s very pretty—in an odd, gothic and dark sort of way.

“Yer brother has been harassing my brother.”  
  
“Your brother is the one who nearly broke his nose!”

“He’s not apologizing for anything,” Christopher says, and Arthur feels himself shrink back a little, intimidated by the boy’s height and strong-looking posture.

“Then let’s change his mind,” Alistair grunts before throwing Jacob to the ground.

All hell breaks loose, and Arthur isn’t sure who ends up hitting whom but he does get knocked over by someone at some point. He blindly swings his fists, hoping to land a punch or two. 

Alistair and Dylan tackle Christopher while Arthur suddenly gets held down by Victoria, and one of her sisters, Charlotte. They hadn’t counted the girls as part of the potential fight, so it was supposed to be three on two, but now it appears it’s five against three, and they don’t stand a chance.  
  
Arthur knows he’s not allowed to hit any of the girls, but what’s he supposed to do then? Just stay put? It seems like they’re not trying to hurt him—just subduing him.

Struggling and pushing doesn’t count as hitting, right? 

Arthur tries to squirm out of their hold. How pathetic that he’s being held down by two _girls_! If his father saw him now…He’d be beaten just for being so weak.  
  
“Get off!” Arthur shouts at the two girls, flinging his elbow outward. It connects with Charlotte’s face, and she quickly lets go of him and shrieks, appalled. 

Awkwardly, Arthur sits up and feels his heart sink to his stomach as she starts to cry. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to!” 

How does one go about consoling a girl?

He attempts to put a hand on her shoulder, but she slaps it away and screams at him to get away.

 _“Don’t touch me!”_   
  
“I’m sorry!”   
  
“I don’t care!” 

Victoria takes Charlotte by the hand instead, and all of the girls briskly make their way back to the house while Dylan, Alistair, Christopher, and Jacob continue to roll around on the ground, getting bits of gravel in their hair.  
  
“Truce! Let’s call a truce!” Arthur exclaims, hoping to end the madness. This is enough. He didn’t want this to get out of hand. He didn’t want to hurt Charlotte, and now she’s upset and he feels awful. 

Thankfully, his brothers stop. 

Lesson number three—hurting people doesn’t make one feel better, even if they deserve it. It just makes everything hurt even more. 

* * *

 

At Francis’s insistence, Arthur takes the next two days off of work, which gives him some time to catch up on some reading he’s been meaning to get to. When he’s not reading, he keeps himself busy by tidying up the house while Francis is at work and the girls are at school. He reorganizes the entire closet in the master bedroom when he runs out of dishes to wash and laundry to do.  
  
He needs to keep himself occupied. Otherwise, his thoughts wander to dark places. He doesn’t want to think about the tumor sitting in his brain right now. He wants to ignore the migraines, nausea, loss of appetite, occasional bouts of dizziness…

Menial tasks keep him sane as the time goes on ticking.

He’ll be back to work at the hospital tomorrow, and it’ll be Saturday, which means he can introduce Amelia to Dr. Beilschmidt so he can give her a firm lecture about the dangers of motorcycles, especially when one is a teenager and isn’t wearing a helmet. He’s hoping Beilschmidt has enough horror stories up his sleeve—or can fabricate/embellish a few—to scare Amelia at least for the time being.

He has a consult with Oxenstierna next week, and while he doesn’t think he’s mentally prepared for it, the sooner he can start treatment, the better. If all goes well, this will just seem like a distant, fleeting nightmare.

Until then, he’ll be vacuuming, or ironing, or organizing…

* * *

 

**London, 1981**

“We shouldn’t have let them off so easily,” Dylan mumbles as they all grab themselves something to drink from the fridge and sprawl themselves out on the living room couch. “What if they come back for another round?”   
  
“We can take ‘em,” Alistair assures, chugging a soda. “We’re even for now. I don’t think they’ll be bothering us…Arthur?”  
  
Arthur flinches and nearly drops the carton of apple juice he’s holding as he turns to look at his brothers. “Yeah?”   
  
“Ye did well back there, besides hitting the girl and all…”  
  
“It was an accident.”   
  
“I know, I know. Victoria won’t see it that way though,” Alistair sighs—he sounds like an old man with all of that huffing and puffing, and his insistence on speaking with what he thinks is a Scottish accent doesn’t help.

“I thought you said you didn’t like her that much anyway,” Dylan reminds him.   
  
“I like her, but ye know how women are—makes it hard to like ‘em.”

Dylan furrows his brows, considering this. “Does she like the way you talk—Scottish and all?”  
  
“Did you tell her you’re not from Scotland?” Arthur adds, unable to stop himself from the opportunity to tease his older brother.

“I _am_ from Scotland.”   
  
“Being born there by accident because Mum and Dad were on holiday doesn’t make you from there,” Dylan says, matter-of-fact.

“Yes, it does.”   
  
“No, it doesn’t work that way.”   
  
“How would you know anyway?” Alistair fumes, cheeks turning a little pink like they always do when he feels embarrassed.

“Ah-ha, see!” Dylan shouts, standing up excitedly. “You just said ‘you’ normally just then.”   
  
“I can talk however I want!”   
  
Here they go again. Arthur knows he shouldn’t have started this. Just several minutes ago, they were a band of brothers working to protect each other from their neighbors. Now, they’re back to their usual in-fighting. For a moment, Arthur thought they might actually be getting along, but that was wishful thinking on his part.

Maybe it’s better if they’re fighting—at least that’s how he knows everything is as it should be.

* * *

 

Coming back into work after creating such a spectacle for everyone a few days ago means that even people he doesn’t personally know well start coming up to ask him if he’s “all right,” which is honestly a little insulting. Of course, he’s all right. He can manage his own affairs, and while he knows most of his colleagues have good intentions at heart, he can’t stand the concern.

He has Amelia come in around lunchtime, that way he’s already taken report, has a good idea of the workload on his shoulders for the shift, and can devote more time to making sure she receives a proper lecture. Beilschmidt has already been briefed on the situation, and so, Arthur sends Amelia off to sit in the doctor’s lounge and wait for when Beilschmidt has a free moment to speak with her. Arthur is sure that dragging her here on a Saturday and keeping her away from her friends was punishment enough, so the extra lecture is an added benefit.

And while Amelia is doing that, Arthur tries to continue with work as usual, which turns out to be surprisingly difficult. In addition to how ill he was already feeling, now he has the added injuries from the car accident to deal with. Craning his neck to look at a computer screen to do his charting all day is hell. As it turns out, he uses his neck quite a lot, and examining patients now almost always requires several winces before he can finish a single assessment.

As if he hasn’t been humiliated enough already, a wave of dizziness hits him as he’s walking out of a patient’s room. He braces a hand against the nearest wall and resists the urge to be sick for the umpteenth time. Hasn’t he vomited enough for one lifetime already?  
  
He stumbles his way to the nurses’ station and sits down for a moment. He lowers his head to his knees, trying to chase away the black clouds in his vision that are making him feel faint.

“Everything all right?” someone asks.

He raises his bleary eyes—it’s just Mary. 

“Fine. It’s just been a long day…”   
  
Without him needing to ask, Mary walks away for a moment and returns with a small carton of apple juice. “Here. Bring your glucose up.”

He sheepishly accepts it with a small nod. “Thank you.”   
  
“You’re always welcome…I saw your daughter come in earlier. She’s beautiful—that’s going to be a problem.”

Arthur takes a sip of the apple juice and manages a crooked smile. “Any advice?”

“Teach her to make smart choices.”

“Easier said than done.”   
  
Mary gives a little hum of agreement and is about to say more, but shouts suddenly fill the unit, and Arthur immediately jumps to his feet, already en-route to the scene. 

He finds a patient arguing in the hallway with his nurse. The nurse’s polite but firm attempts to coax him back to his room and into his bed seem to be failing. The man is well over six-feet tall and large in build, easily towering over her.

“Sir, please return to your room, and then we can discuss whatever issues you might have,” Arthur cuts in, placing himself between the two.

He’s seen it all. Aggressive and violent patients are nothing new to him, and so, he isn’t scared of this man. The thought of his own safety doesn’t even occur to him. He’s more concerned about his colleague.

  
“I wasn’t talking to you,” the patient hisses, throwing a hand out to push him out of the way, but Arthur doesn’t move.   
  
“Security!” the nurse calls before hurrying off to get some medication to call the man down. 

The man grabs Arthur by the collar and slams him against the wall, pinning him there and shaking the oxygen out of his lungs.  
  


_Don’t put a hand on him. Don’t touch him. If you put a hand on him, you will lose your job. Security is coming…_   
  


“I want to talk to whoever’s in fucking charge,” the man growls.  
  
“You’ll have to let go of me first,” Arthur says very calmly, staring into the man’s eyes. “I can’t help you, if you won’t let go.”

“I don’t want any fucking help. I want answers!”

_A purple-brown bruise.  
_ _A split lip.  
_ _He deserves it for what he’s done.  
Hit him.  
_ _He deserves it.  
_ _Hurting good people who only want to help is wrong.  
_ _Always getting pushed around.  
_ _Weak._

The man puts a clammy hand around his neck, and that’s when he loses it. He puts a hand on the man’s right wrist—the arm that’s choking him—and twists it as hard as he dares until he hears a snap. The man’s left hand then comes up and strikes him across the right side of his jaw. For a brief second, Arthur is released and tries to dive away, but the man yanks him back and chucks him to the floor.

Hurried footsteps arrive, and security restrains the patient at last. Another doctor gives him an injection of a sedative.  
  
“Dad!” 

He sits up and sees Amelia, Mary, and Gilbert Beilschmidt speed-walking over to him. Mary and Gilbert help him up and he shakily dusts himself off.  
  
“Jesus Christ, Kirkland. How many times are you going to try to get yourself killed before you let up?” Gilbert asks, checking him over for any major injuries.  
  
“Are you okay?” Amelia asks, completely horrified.   
  
“I broke his wrist,” Arthur says breathlessly, in disbelief of himself. “Why did I do that?”   
  
“Uh, maybe because that guy was trying to strangle you!” Amelia cries.

Mary and Gilbert are also quick to reassure him.

“It was self-defense,” Mary insists, squeezing his shoulder. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to be in any trouble for that.”   
  
“We witnessed it, and there are surveillance cameras to prove it,” Gilbert adds.

Arthur shakes his throbbing head, cradles his jaw, and starts to walk back in the direction of the nurses’ station. That was one of the stupidest things he’s ever done. “I should’ve known better.”

“Don’t beat yourself up over it,” Gilbert says. “Let’s get some ice for your face.”

“What were you supposed to do? Just let yourself get beat up?” Amelia asks, trembling a little.

Now he’s going to have a lot of explaining to do, both to his higher-ups and to the police. He’s not allowed to strike at or injure a patient. He needs to find a lawyer.  
  
He takes the icepack Mary gives him, holds it to his jaw, and says to Gilbert, “Please tell me the talk went well.”   
  
“Oh, yeah, of course. I told her that it’s the twenty-first century, and if she wants to get on a motorcycle, she doesn’t need a man’s help. She can learn to ride one on her own. We were looking at some potential models online,” Gilbert explains.

That’s the last thing needed to send him over the edge.  
  
The dizziness returns, and he promptly keels over, but Mary and Gilbert manage to break his fall. 

“I’m guessing that’s not what you wanted me to tell her then?” Gilbert asks innocently.  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**_London, 1983_**  

Though Arthur is now old enough to walk to school alone, he has yet to feel very grown up. At eleven-years-old, his body remains undecided as to whether or not it wants to pursue puberty. He is shorter than the majority of the boys in his class and lacks any hints of facial hair or muscle in his tree-branch arms. His cherub-cheeks refuse to become hollower. Though his teachers and other elders like to refer to him as a "young man" rather than a boy, when he looks in the mirror, he doesn't see a man staring back at him. He's just the same awkward, not-much-to-look-at child that he's always been.

When he finds Alistair's razor sitting innocently on the bathroom counter one day, his heart burns with envy. It's sleek, sharp, and is still speckled with leftover drops of water from being rinsed. 

Arthur touches his own chin and frowns. Even Dylan shaves, and he's only thirteen.

How did Arthur end up being the only one who didn't inherit the masculine genes that all of his brothers clearly received? Dylan was starting to shave at this age...

If not for his unseemly eyebrows, sun-spot and freckle-pocked complexion, and non-existent testosterone, maybe he wouldn't be pushed around so much at school. He wouldn’t be forced to eat lunch alone. He might have friends to do his homework with and might get better grades as a result. He would no longer be the strange boy in class who makes up spells and writes them in his notebook—also known as his spellbook—while his teacher lectures about equations and variables.

He picks up Alistair’s razor, turns it over in his hands, and, before he can internally talk himself out of it, scrapes it against a patch of pale skin right above his jawline.

He nicks himself and draws blood. The razor falls out of his hand and lands in the sink, and he hastily turns on the faucet and rubs some cold water over the cut, soothing the sting. Why is he incompetent at everything? 

He rinses Alistair’s razor, hoping to hide any evidence of wrongdoing, and leaves it exactly where he found it.

_“What’s this?”_

He jumps and instinctively hides his hands behind his back.

He’s not sure whether to be relieved or worried that Patrick is now standing in the doorway.  
  
“You’re bleeding,” Patrick notes before wetting a face towel under the faucet and pressing it to the wound. He also finds Alistair’s razor, connects this information, and says, “You shouldn’t be playing with this.”  
  
“I wasn’t playing,” Arthur huffs adamantly, hoping he sounds gruff enough be taken seriously.  
  
“You need hair to shave, Arthur.”  
  
“Shut up. You don’t know anything.”  
  
Patrick catches the flush of embarrassment spreading across his cheeks and laughs gently. “Don’t worry, you’ll be old enough for it in due time.” 

“I’m old enough.”  
  
“Not quite.”  
  
Patrick is now nineteen but appears much older, both physically and in his emotional maturity. After finishing sixth form, he had to put off his plans for going to university. It’s not that he didn’t have the grades for it – but their mother has been struggling to keep them fed and clothed, and so, he has to work at a bookstore with a boss whom he despises. The wages are fair at least.

He removes the towel from Arthur’s face and smiles sadly. “There…That’s better. Mum’s been worried about you.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Mothers always worry about their youngest child—I suppose it’s instinctual…Is everything okay?”  
  
He was pushed down some stairs the other day by a classmate, but aside from a few bruises, he’s all right. He has learned that crying foul at every horrible thing that happens to him tends to backfire. Most of the time, it’s better not to say anything at all.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Patrick bites his bottom lip, and Arthur isn’t sure if that means he’s angry or upset. “I’m not worried about you. Do you want to know why?”  
  
He shrugs his shoulders and assumes he’s about to be insulted.  
  
“Because you’re clever—now you just have to learn how to use it to your advantage.”

He wants to ask what that means, but before he can, Patrick disappears—probably to have a smoke.  
 

The next day, Arthur invents a new spell while his teacher drones on about the Napoleonic Wars. He calls it _capillumos_ — _capillum_ meaning ‘hair’ in Latin. Maybe if he recites it enough times, he’ll sprout a beard.

Latin is called the ‘dead’ language because no one speaks it anymore, but that’s not really true. It turns out elements of Latin are still found in a lot of languages like French, Spanish, Italian, and even in English, and that’s what makes it fascinating. _Et cetera_ is Latin. So is _vice versa_ and _quid pro quo_. And there are Latin words that are similar to some everyday words like _libero_ which means _to liberate_ and _imitor_ which means _to imitate_.

He knows this because he’s been teaching himself from an old book he found in the living room which once belonged to his father titled _Understanding Latin_ , _Volume I_. He doesn’t know why his father owned this book. Perhaps he had to study Latin at some point, which seems unlikely but possible. Nonetheless, it was collecting dust in the bookcase. It has made his compulsory French class a bit more interesting.

The first spell he ever created was a hex called _vindicta_ —vengeance. 

* * *

 

“You nearly passed out on us, which isn’t that surprising considering all the shit that’s happened today, but still, you should take up a bed and accept some IV fluids,” Gilbert suggests, but Arthur isn’t having any of this doting. 

“No. I’m fine. I’d appreciate it if everyone _would stop hovering over me_ ,” he growls, tossing aside the ice pack that he’s been holding against his jaw. It’s just _too much_. It feels like he’s being weighed down more and more. It’s like he could fall through the floor and never stop plummeting until he reaches the depths of hell, which still might be preferable to going through all of this.  
  
Gilbert, Mary, and Amelia all take turns frowning at him and insist he listens to reason and either lets himself receive some treatment or goes home, but it’s all just white noise in Arthur’s head. He’s still reeling from what he did to that patient. 

_“Arthur, pushing yourself isn’t going to help, and you know that.”_

That’s a new voice. It cuts through the others.  
  
He marginally raises his head, squints his eyes, and sees Oxenstierna glowering at him from the other side of the nurses’ station.

Everything is throbbing now—his head, neck, jaw, and shoulders. Every muscle in his body feels weaker than it should be, and he starts to internally acknowledge that yes, maybe he has been neglecting to take care of himself. He can’t remember the last proper meal he had. He’s been feeding himself with painkillers, water, and not much else—he’s too nauseous to have an appetite for anything.

“You should be on sick leave,” Oxenstierna adds, saying the dreaded ‘s’ word.

“Never.”  
  
“You’re making it worse.”  
  
Amelia raises a brow at Arthur. “Making what worse? What’s he talking about?”  
  
And then, a flash of surprise flits across Oxenstierna’s face as he realizes that Arthur hasn’t told anyone about the true nature of his condition. But he’s not going to reveal anything himself—patient-doctor confidentiality comes first.

“Amelia…This is Dr. Oxenstierna, he’s a neurologist. He’s the person I was eventually going to introduce you to—not like this, of course,” Arthur explains.

“Why?” Amelia asks, increasingly frustrated with him.

He hates how weary his own voice sounds, and he doesn’t want to have this conversation when other people are around.  
  
“Let’s talk about this somewhere else,” he suggests, getting up from the chair he’s been sitting in. 

“No! You keep avoiding it! Just tell me what’s going on!”

“Don’t raise your voice at me.”  
  
“Tell me now! We had a deal! You—You don’t even care about how anyone else is feeling, do you? You don’t care that everyone’s worried!”  
  
“That’s not true.”  
  
Amelia muffles a sob into her sleeve and shouts, “Well, I’m done caring about you!”

She storms away, and Mary promptly follows her, leaving everyone else in uncomfortable silence.

“I’m not sure what that was all about, but she didn’t mean what she just said,” Gilbert whispers, putting a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“No, it’s my fault. She’s right—she shouldn’t care.”

“Arthur…She was just blowing off steam,” Gilbert insists. 

He was _going_ to tell her, but her impatience got ahead of them. He has an appointment with Oxenstierna in a few days. He planned to bring her with him and explain everything then. He thought he’d be able to earn her trust that way, and she’d be able to earn his, but now he sees that was a mistake. She can’t detach herself like he can. She gets too upset. She will not be able to keep the news to herself if he tells her. He _can’t_ trust her, as much as he’d like to. All he’s done is drive a wedge between them. He has hurt her enough. 

He is on his own.

* * *

 

 _“I heard you and Amelia had a fallout.”_  
  
“Mmh.”  
  
“When I tried to question her about it, she didn’t want to talk and simply locked herself in her room yet again. Was it about the boy?” Francis asks as he’s pulling back the duvet and getting settled in bed.  
  
“Something like that…It’ll work itself out,” Arthur mutters, joining him under the covers. He lets out a little sigh, lets the heaviness of his body burrow him into the bed, and closes his eyes even though he feels too restless to sleep.

Francis brushes a soft thumb over his cheek. “What happened to your face?”  
  
“A patient hit me.”  
  
“ _Merde_. What is wrong with people these days? Hitting a doctor—the nerve! Are you all right? You need to stop getting yourself injured!” 

“It can’t be helped. I’m fine.” 

Francis pulls him in for a kiss, strokes a hand over the crown of his head, and says protectively, “If anyone else even _thinks_ about putting a hand on my husband, I will _kill_ them.” 

Arthur responds with a snort. “How kind of you. I feel safe now. You’re quite the bodyguard.” 

“It’s one of my many redeeming qualities,” Francis replies with a grin. “You need more rest. You’re _still_ not taking care of yourself, _mon amour_.”  
  
“Thank you for that insightful observation, Dr. Bonnefoy.”

“Well, someone has to watch over your health.”

Francis kisses him again and nestles their bodies together. The steady beating of his heart and the calming tidal waves of breath moving his chest make the weight feel a little less paralyzing. 

“Don’t get any ideas,” Arthur mumbles, but really, part of him is aching for this. It’s a lonely, carnal kind of ache. A solid 8 out of 10 on the pain scale. 

“But it’s been too long, _mon cher_ ,” Francis croons directly into his ear, and yes, he’s right, it’s been _far_ too long.

This time, Arthur is the one who raises his head, finds Francis’s lips, and pulls him in. It won’t be the same once Francis finds out—so he should enjoy the intimacy while he still can. 

“I love you,” Arthur whispers carefully, and in the next second, he’s rolling over, wrenching himself out of his pitiful self-wallowing, and straddling Francis’s lap.  
  
Francis chuckles in that way that always makes Arthur’s heart flutter a little, and whispers in return, “My, my, what’s gotten into you? Lecherous man…”  
  
_I love you, and I never want to lose you._  
  
Please, never let go. Don’t walk away. Not like everyone else.

Francis runs his hands over his back, sending a delightful tingle up his spine, and finally says, “I love you, too, _mon amour_.”  

* * *

 

**_London, 1983_ **

Reading is one of the few things he can take comfort in. Fantasy, magic, the supernatural, what lies between this world and the next, the origins of language, ancient theology—all of this information can be found in the school’s library, and so, he spends an inordinate amount of time there, reaching for anything that sounds interesting and can explain why things are the way they are—why his life is so chaotic and what the point of it all is.

But to understand the outside, he first has to understand the inside. The human body itself seems like a fantastical thing out of a fairytale at times. There is so much still unknown about the brain and aggressive diseases that force major organs to malfunction—how do you cure a cancer or HIV? But sometimes, modern science beats the odds. Just last year, in 1982, an American doctor created the first artificial heart.

It’s real life magic. 

And it’s a kind of magic that can be learned and applied to everyday life, Arthur discovers. Sometimes, all you need is a pair of working hands and lungs to revive someone—like using CPR to get someone’s heart started again. People used to die from colds and food poisoning. Infection was rampant just because no one understood the importance of washing one’s hands. Catching any illness or being born with a disease could be a death sentence.

There is a girl who comes to the library often—she has an insulin pump. If she’d been born in any other time period, she likely would have died. In the days of the Roman Empire, the average man only lived to 35, and that was if they were otherwise relatively healthy. Many children died by the age of 10.

And that’s why he would never want to go back in time—the risk posed by disease and a lack of proper medicine would wipe him out soon enough. People used to _bathe_ and _drink_ from the Thames without treating the water first!

He replaces his spellbook with a first-aid notebook. Aloe for burns. Compression bandages for sprains and strains. Bananas, rice, applesauce, and toast for when one is ill and has an upset stomach.

The next time he gets hit in the eye by a ball during P.E., he knows to sneak some ibuprofen from his mother’s medicine drawer instead of paracetamol, as it is anti-inflammatory.

Treating himself for stuff is all right at first, but then it gets boring. He starts looking for other subjects—like a pigeon with a broken wing that he finds sitting defeatedly under a tree near the house. It’s visibly weak and dying, seeing as it can’t fly to hunt for food or get to a water source. 

So, he brings it a small cup of water and a diced apple. He’s not sure what pigeons eat, but fruit seems like a safe option, and the pigeon gladly gobbles it up without hesitation.

Then comes the tricky part.

Bandaging tape is cheap and easy to get from the pharmacy—all Arthur has to do is skip one day of lunch to save up the money to buy it. The pigeon is still there the next day, and so, he cuts a strip that should be long enough to wrap around the bird’s wing. 

The pigeon hasn’t attempted to attack him yet, but if it feels threatened, it might. Do they bite? Will he get a disease from it? 

Honestly, that’s a risk he’s willing to take for the sake of science. All good researchers need to gamble with their own safety sometimes.  
  
At first, the pigeon tries to hop away and flaps its good wing in an attempt to intimidate him, but Arthur isn’t deterred. He holds it still with one hand wrapped around its chubby torso and does his best to wrap the teal bandaging tape with his free hand. Fortunately, the tape sticks to itself, so once it’s on, it’s not going to come apart easily. He takes care not to wrap it too tightly—just enough so that it’s snug.

Then, he releases the pigeon, watches it drink some more water and eat another apple, and admires his work.

In a week’s time, he will remove the bandaging tape, and the pigeon will fly away toward the sun—all better again. He will have cured his first patient.

Magic.

* * *

It is a calm day at the office. A few cases of strep, a rash, a persistent cough—nothing too out of the ordinary, and that’s good. With the recent insanity at the hospital, it’s good to be back in his own practice for a bit. In here, it’s just him, and he has no one to answer to but himself. 

He’s not going to get into any trouble for breaking that man’s wrist, as it turns out. Gilbert and Mary were right, and he’s relieved. He spoke to the administrators and his superiors about it both over the phone and in person. It was self-defense, and though Arthur still isn’t happy about it and honestly thinks he should have let himself asphyxiate instead, the matter will be resolved within a week or two of paperwork. He is lucky. 

He gets through his waiting room quickly. He has just a few more patients scheduled to come in before he can call it a day, but it shouldn’t be overwhelming. He can finish his charting without feeling the need to rush.

When he hears someone come in through the front door and walk over to reception, he checks his watch and frowns. He’s not supposed to be seeing anyone yet, unless someone arrived very early to their appointment or it’s the deliveryman.

 _“You can go right in,” he hears his receptionist say._

He turns away from his computer, looks up, and sees Madeline.  
  
“Hey, Dad,” she says with a rosy-cheeked smile. She must have come straight from school because she still has her backpack on her shoulders. “Sorry to interrupt.”  
  
He gets up and walks over to her to give her a hug. “Hello, poppet. Don’t apologize. Is everything all right?”

“I think I’m coming down with something again, so I thought I’d stop by,” she says, and Arthur can hear the hoarseness in her voice.  
  
He presses a hand to her forehead and nods. “You feel warm…Let’s take a look at you.”  
  
He leads her into one of the exam rooms, changes the paper on the exam table, and tells her to have a seat and take her coat off while he washes his hands in the nearby sink.  
  
“When did you start feeling ill?”  
  
“Around lunchtime, I noticed my throat was starting to hurt, and now it’s a lot worse,” she explains, setting her backpack, coat, and scarf at the end of the table.

“Runny nose? Congestion? Coughing? Sneezing?”  
  
“No, just a headache and chills.”  
  
He takes a thermometer out of a drawer, puts a disposable plastic cover on it, and places it under her tongue. “Sounds like it might be strep—it’s been going around.”

She blinks her fever-glazed blue eyes at him and gives a hum of agreement.

“102.2,” he announces with a frown once the reading registers. “Why didn’t you go to the school nurse?”

“I felt okay until my last two classes. I thought I could ride it out.”  
  
Arthur tsks but refrains from lecturing her. There’ll be time for that later. He places his stethoscope on her chest and then on her back. Her heart and lungs sound fine. He doesn’t hear an abnormal heart rhythm and her breath sounds are normal and free of any congestion.

He then checks her ears and nose with his otoscope—no signs of an ear infection and no post-nasal drip.

“Now for the fun part—say ‘ahh.’”

“Ahhhh.” 

He illuminates her throat with the light from his otoscope and immediately sees the problem. Her tonsils are red and inflamed, as is her pharynx. He can see some white patches beginning to form.

He momentarily sets the otoscope aside and lets Madeline close her mouth. He palpates her neck, feeling her lymph nodes, and, sure enough, they are swollen as well. “I’m going to take a swab, all right?” 

“I figured,” Madeline says, making a face.  
  
“I know it’s not pleasant, love, I’m sorry.”  
  
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault. It’s your job.”

He rummages around for a tongue depressor and two cotton swabs—one will be for the rapid strep test and the other for the lab. He pulls on a pair of blue nitrile gloves, promises Madeline it’ll be quick, puts the tongue depressor in her mouth, and runs the two cotton swabs against the back of her throat and over her tonsils, collecting a suitable sample of bacteria.

He sticks one sample in a collection tube and another into the strep test kit. Then, he throws away his gloves, and all there’s left to do is wait for a few minutes for the results.

He rubs at his own head and tries to be inconspicuous about it, but Madeline notices anyway.

 _“Dad…It’s a tumor, isn’t it?”_  

For several seconds, he’s not sure if he believes what Madeline has just asked him. Perhaps he imagined it. Maybe he’s running a fever as well.  
  
“What? Sorry, I didn’t catch that.”

“You’ve been sick for weeks now, you have headaches every day, you’re throwing up, you won’t eat, you’re pale, and Amelia says you wanted her to meet a neurologist. I mean, it’s kinda obvious, right?” Madeline continues, voice raspy. “I don’t think Amelia knows, if that’s what you’re worried about…”  
  
The dizziness returns. He grips the counter to steady himself. “Madeline…”  
  
“It’s okay, Dad…I’m not going to tell anyone.”  
  
He’s not sure what to say.

“I get why you didn’t want to tell us, but…you shouldn’t go through this alone. We love you and care about you. We all just want to help.”

There are tears glistening in her eyes, and Arthur knows they’re not being caused by the fever. He didn’t want to upset anyone. This is precisely what he wanted to protect Madeline from—from the pain of knowing.  
  
Madeline gets off of the exam table, crosses the room, and wraps her arms around his waist in another hug.

_“It’s okay, Dad. We’re here for you. It’s gonna be all right.”_

When he tells himself it’s going to be okay, he doesn’t believe it. His life has been a litany of false self-reassurances lately.

“ _I love you. It’s okay.”_

Hearing Madeline say it though…

Something in him breaks. 

Shatters into a million pieces.

And all the feelings he couldn’t feel rush back to him.

He takes ahold of her shoulders, wraps her in his arms like the teal bandage around a broken wing, and inwardly promises himself to never walk away—never leave her like how his father left too soon, never let her feel the pain of loss, of waiting and waiting for something that’ll never come back.

He has to be here. He has to stay. It _has_ to be okay.  
  
“It’s okay, Dad,” Madeline repeats again, her hot tears sinking into his white coat. 

And finally, he cries—muffles a sob into Madeline’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, quickly pulling away as though he has burned her.  
  
Madeline shakes her head and hugs him harder. “No, don’t be sorry. It’s not your fault.”  
  
And like the spineless, weak fool he is, he continues to cry, but he grabs a wad of paper towels and dries his face, hoping to put an end to it as soon as possible. 

He clears his nose and throat, collects himself, looks at the test results on the counter, and says, “You have strep. I’ll prescribe you some antibiotics.”

She frowns, “Sorry, I probably just gave it to you, then.”  
  
He laughs softly and swipes at his puffy eyes. She’s letting him change the subject—for his sake. “I doubt it. I’ve already been exposed to it today anyway. I’ll pick up your medication from the pharmacy on the way home. For now, I’ll give you some ibuprofen for the pain and fever, and I’ll write you a note for school—you should stay home tomorrow.”

“Are you working tomorrow?”  
  
“No, but I have…I have an appointment in the morning.”  
  
“To the neurologist?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“I can go with you.”  
  
“No, you’re ill. You’ll stay in bed. I’ll only be gone for two hours at most. As you said, it’ll be okay, and I’ll manage,” he says with a small smile, tucking some hair behind Madeline’s ear. “Thank you.”

“If you need someone though, I don’t mind,” she tells him earnestly as he gets her the ibuprofen and a cup of chilled water. 

He gives her shoulder a squeeze and nods before checking his watch again. “I’ll be here for another hour or so, and our dear Frenchman is likely still at work as well. You’re welcome to sit in my office if you don’t mind waiting and want to go home together. Or, I can call a taxi for you, so you don’t have to take the bus while unwell.”

“It’s okay, I’ll wait. I can stay in here, the exam table is comfier than a chair anyway,” she says before taking the medicine. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re very welcome. Can we trust Amelia to be home alone for an hour?” he asks, only partially joking. 

“She’s probably out with friends and isn’t even home yet.”  
  
“But she’s grounded,” Arthur reminds.

“Even more of a reason for her not to be home. She’s mad at you.”

Arthur sighs. Once again, Madeline has proven that she knows Amelia better than he does. “Do you know where she might be?”  
  
“Probably with Ivan—that guy with the motorcycle.”

Great. 

“Any idea where I’d be able to find them?”  
  
“Maybe at the diner that’s ten minutes from school? Amelia likes their milkshakes, and I know Ivan takes her there a lot,” Madeline suggests, massaging her throat and sitting down on the exam table again.

“I’ll go looking for her if she’s not back by the time I drop you off…You should rest for a bit,” he instructs. He has her lie down, rolls up her coat and uses it as a makeshift pillow so that she’s more comfortable, and then he takes his own coat from his office and drapes it over her as a temporary blanket. “Send me a text message if you need anything—conserve your voice.”

“Thanks.”  
  
He places a kiss on her fevered brow and feels a little lighter than he did before.

He doesn’t tell his girls that he loves them often enough, and it’s clear from how Amelia has been acting. He’s going to fix things with her—fix things with everyone.

Unfortunately, these are ailments that are a little harder to cure.  

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of underage drug/alcohol use in this chapter.

_**London, 1983** _

Patrick is in love, or so it would seem.

Arthur doesn't know very much about the whole matter, but it appears to be serious, and he's not sure whether or not he should be worried. Personally, he has never experienced love, at least, he doesn't think he has. There was one time in year five when he thought a girl in his class, Emily, was pretty, but he wasn't in love with her by any means. He wouldn't even go as far as to say he fancied her. There was no attraction whatsoever—just a mere observation that she had a pleasant-looking face.

But that's not love. It can't be. Love is more than enjoying symmetrical facial features. From what Arthur has heard, it makes people do stupid things, perform poorly in school, and cast aside their family and friends.

Unfortunately, Patrick is demonstrating some of these treacherous symptoms. He sings in the shower, when he's doing chores, getting ready for work, and so on—and he has  _terrible_ taste in music, mind you. If Arthur hears his brother's warble "Hold Me Now" by the Thompson Twins one more time, he may just go mad.

He spends less time at home, which leads to more than a few quarrels between him and Mum. For an entire five months, Patrick somehow manages to keep his new girlfriend a secret, until finally, word begins spreading around their little rumor-mill street. Before she even steps foot through their front door, Arthur, Alistair, and Dylan all know that her name is Caroline, she's a painter, has hazelnut brown hair and thick-rimmed glasses, and manages to enchant everyone she speaks to.

Patrick is hesitant to introduce her to them. Arthur suspects he is embarrassed—not because he is dating, but because he doesn't want to have to reveal where and how he lives. Being in a house that is falling apart both literally and figuratively with your mother and three brothers isn't the luxurious impression Patrick likely wants Caroline to have of him.

"You have such a beautiful family," is the first thing she says to Patrick after she greets them all, and the look of relief on Patrick's face is hard to miss. She wraps an arm around his waist, kisses his cheek with a wide smile on her lips, and then leans into him. "What were you so worried about?"

While they're all standing in one circle in the living room, Arthur takes a good look at the rest of his family…What would his first impression of them be? He'd probably immediately notice the absence of their father, the second-hand clothes they're all wearing, the tea stain on the rug that Mum tried to bleach but couldn't, and how small their house is for such a big family…

But something tells him Caroline doesn't see all of that—maybe she doesn't have an eye for those kinds of details, or it just doesn't occur to her how fragmented they are. She just sees an ordinary mother with her boys, the eldest of which is her boyfriend and the co-head of the house. Maybe she thinks they have breakfast and dinner together every day and that they're somehow admirable because, despite the difficulties they face, they're still one big, happy, loving family.

Arthur wishes he could be as blissfully ignorant as her.

* * *

"Thanks again, Dad."

"You don't have to thank me."

He takes Madeline's backpack, walks up to the house with her, and unlocks the door to let them in. It's thanks to Francis that he was able to drive Madeline home. It's good to have his car now back in the driveway where it should be, right next to Francis's. The dent will still have to be repaired, but everything else has been functioning well thus far.

It's quiet—a somber kind of quiet. Francis isn't home yet and neither is Amelia (he's going to have a  _long_ chat with her as soon as he tracks her down).

"Go upstairs and get comfortable, love. I'll bring you some tea. After dinner, you can take your antibiotic," he tells Madeline as he's helping her out of her coat. He worriedly presses a kiss to the crown of her warm forehead and then sends her off. "I'll be up in a few minutes."

He busies himself in the kitchen by setting the kettle on the stove, cleaning some of the leftover dishes that seem to have been left behind from this morning—Amelia was eating that horrible, sugary cereal of hers again. He purposefully went out and bought her a healthier alternative, and yet still, she insists on junk. She must have a hidden stash of cereal in her room because he told Francis not to buy this anymore.

She has to defy him when it comes to everything, doesn't she? And for what? What does she think she's accomplishing other than giving him hypertension on a daily basis?

Tonight, all of this is going to stop, once and for all.

She is stubborn, incorrigible, reckless, won't listen to reason, doesn't take into consideration how this is affecting the rest of the family, is needlessly putting herself into situations that she doesn't have to be in…

_She is precisely like you_ , a voice in the back of his head nags.

He sighs, sits down at the kitchen table as he waits for the water to boil, and runs an anguished hand through his hair. Did she really pick up all of his bad habits? His unhealthy coping mechanisms? His terrible knack for disregarding others and getting himself into trouble and then attempting to deal with it on his own?

_She tried to tell you how she really feels, cried to you, and you still brushed her aside_.

He knows how that feels, and he never thought he would be the type of father to do that to his own children. He doesn't want her to feel as though she can't be honest with him, even when it comes to her emotions and thoughts— _especially_  when it comes to her emotions and thoughts.

The kettle whistles just as Francis comes in.

_What would he do without Francis?_

This is a question he must keep asking himself as a reminder that losing him is always in the realm of possibility, and so, he must cherish him, if not openly then at least internally.

"Hello,  _mon amour_. Tea for  _moi_?"

"For Madeline—she has strep throat—but there's enough water for you as well so don't make a fuss about how inconsiderate I am or accuse me of not loving you."

Francis chuckles, puts his bag and coat down on one of the kitchen chairs, and saunters over to Arthur to give him a hug. "I would never do such a thing, and how is our poor Madeline ill yet again?"

He lets himself enjoy Francis's embrace for a moment, but just a moment, because now there are other matters he must tend to.

"Can you make sure Madeline drinks her tea, has something to eat, and takes her antibiotic? The pills are on the counter…Yes, those…I need to go find our other daughter."

"What do you mean find our other daughter?" Francis asks with suddenly bewildered eyes. "She's not home? Why haven't you called the police if she's missing? She's grounded!"

"Relax, don't call 911 just yet," Arthur assures with what he hopes is a gentle, convincing smile. "It's all right. Madeline gave me a hint as to where she might be, so I'll follow the lead. If it turns out she's not there, then we can consider having the state get involved," he adds, sarcasm dripping into his voice. He knows himself, and therefore, he knows Amelia. She's not lost or missing. She is purposefully hiding from them and waiting to see if anyone will come looking for her.

_She wants to see that someone cares enough to find her._

"Arthur, we cannot have our daughter disappearing without giving us any word where she is. Have you called her?"

"No. I know she wouldn't pick up even if I did."

"What kind of logic is that? I'll call her!" Francis exclaims, grabbing his phone.

Arthur waits to be proven right.

One ring…Three rings…Five rings…Voicemail.

"I told you so."

"Don't rub it in."

"I won't."

"Go find her and yell at her on behalf of both of us."

"I'll find her," Arthur promises as he carefully takes the cellphone out of Francis's hand and places it on the table, "but I won't yell at her. I don't think that'll work. I have a different plan in mind."

* * *

_**London, 1984** _

"Go ahead, try it," Dylan says with an enticing half-grin as he holds out the little white tablet. "It'll make you feel better—forget about all of this shit."

He's curious, but he's afraid of asking Dylan what is it. He'll just get insulted or made fun of if he shows how oblivious he really is, and with Patrick mostly out of the house these days, and Alistair doing who knows what, Dylan is the only one whom he can still really call a brother.

It was uncharacteristically nice of him to invite Arthur to go out with him and his friends. Arthur has never been much of a party person—he's not sure many twelve-year-olds could say they've experienced night-life, so that puts Arthur officially a step above the rest. It feels good…Finally, he has something noteworthy to his name.

He takes the pill without hesitation. Then, Dylan offers him a swig of his beer. It's cheap beer—awfully bitter and tastes like piss, honestly, but who is Arthur to question it? He has to play along if he ever wants to have a chance at fitting in.

He doesn't even know whose house this is, but it doesn't matter, he just keeps close to Dylan and lets him be the mentor.

"See any girls you like?"

Arthur almost shakes his head but stops himself midway. Of course, he doesn't like any of the girls here—he has never liked a girl—but now that he's been invited to this, he has to show he's worthy of being invited to future parties. He considers himself blessed that neither Dylan nor Alistair have found the collection of GQ magazines under his mattress. That would spur too many questions—questions that Arthur doesn't have the answers to yet, anyway.

This is a rite of passage, and he mustn't disappoint. It's all or nothing.

He picks a girl at random—a short blonde with blue cat-like eyes. Her eye makeup makes her look five years older than she probably is.

Dylan nods in approval and takes another gulp of beer. "Hold still."

His brother vigorously rubs his head, making his hair even messier than it already naturally is, shrugs out of his leather studded jacket, and dresses Arthur in it instead.

"Stand up straight. You can pass for a short fifteen-year-old, maybe…Good, now go up and talk to her. You're ready."

He is  _not_ ready, and now his head feels fuzzy for some reason. It's like the floor is moving beneath him, and the walk over to the other end of the sitting room is so far away.

He swallows hard, finally reaches the girl in a dizzy stupor, and says, "Hey."

_Hey_   _is for horses_ ,  _Mum always says._

The girl pauses the conversation she's been having with her friend and spins around to take a look at him. She takes a few seconds to decide whether or not he's worthy, and then offers him a coy smile. "Hi. What year are you in?"

"Ten," he lies.

"You know Liam? I've never seen you around here before."

_Liam? Who's that?_

"Errm…Yeah, friend of a friend…It's a long story."

"Are you going to tell me your name?"

"M-My what?"

"Your  _name_."

"Arthur."

"Well then, Arthur, I'm Melissa."

Her accent is different. She's not from here. Even over the loud music, it's obvious.

"Are you Scottish?"

Melissa nods and puts a slender hand on his shoulder, making him flinch. "Is that a problem?"

"N-No. My brother, Alistair, was born in Scotland and likes to fancy himself Scottish when he's not. You should teach him what a Scottish accent actually sounds like," he says, and then he immediately wants to slap himself. Who talks like that to someone? Why can't he have any actual social skills? He couldn't think of anything better than mentioning  _Alistair_  of all people?

Oddly enough, she finds it amusing and laughs, flashing her dimples. "Your brother sounds like an interesting character…"

"He's a prat."

She laughs again. "I have a brother, too. They're all prats, but we can't choose our family."

"I'd rather not have a family at all."

"You don't mean it. I thought the same thing…How old are you?"

"Fifteen."

"My prat of a brother is fifteen, too. He's here actually, trying to meet a  _young lass_. Something tells me he's out of luck tonight," she jokes darkly, gesturing with her gaze to a boy passed out in an armchair in the corner. "He always has too much to drink—it's no fun after a while."

Hot euphoria fills him, despite the dizziness circling around his skull. This girl likes him—she would have already gone off to talk someone else if she didn't.

He knows it's wrong of him to think this way, but it feels like he's just won a medal or a trophy. He's capable of wooing a girl. The thought makes him feel strangely powerful.

And he is so, so, so happy.

Perfection…

He has _never_  felt this way before.

Melissa puts a beautiful hand on his cheek and giggles, causing sparks of excitement to light up every part of him. "Are you all right?"

"Never better," he says—the only honest statement of the night so far.

She takes him by the hand and skips ahead of him, leading him away from the din of the sitting room and all the way out to the front yard of the house. "Just want to get some air…"

The chill of the wind doesn't bother him. Nothing could make him feel bad right now. No negative thoughts. No ugly memories. No worrying about whether or not he'll fit in anymore.

There are others out here, and he thinks he sees Dylan talking to someone as well.

"It's nicer out here, isn't it?"

He nods, and she puts both of her hands on his face this time, coaxing him in closer.

He didn't plan to kiss her. He's not even sure this is what he wants. Reality comes flooding back.

_What are you doing? Why are you even here?_

She is just an inch or two from his face now.

Luckily, or unluckily, an empty beer bottle comes soaring out the second story window and nearly hits them. He grabs Melissa by the arm and pulls her out of the way just in time.

"Shit! Sorry!" someone yells, and Arthur suddenly feels incredibly grateful toward whomever that was.

"Are you all right?" he asks Melissa, taking his hand off of her arm.

"Yeah…Thanks."

There's a scream followed by a chorus of yelling. They turn in the direction of the sound, and Arthur already has a sneaking suspicion that it has something to do with Dylan. He's known to get riled up after a few drinks…Something they may have all inherited from their father.

The fake happiness in Arthur's chest remains, and it tells him to stay with Melissa and let his brother deal with his mess himself. It's none of his business.

_He's your brother, and he invited you here. He is your responsibility, too._

Who said he had to be a good person and do the right thing? No one has ever done the right thing for him. No one would care if he dropped dead at this party this second. No one would even shed a tear, except maybe his mother if she found him in the morgue the next day.

He doesn't owe anyone anything. The world has been awful to him, and he has a right to be just as awful back.

Dylan comes stumbling across the yard with another boy close behind…He pissed off a boyfriend. Clearly, the girl he was flirting with wasn't single.

The boyfriend knocks Dylan to the ground, and Dylan shouts a number of vulgarities before another beer bottle comes flying out of the second-story window and part of it strikes him in the face, creating a long cut on his forehead.

"I'm sorry," is all Arthur says to Melissa before leaving her and going to pick up his drunken, broken brother off of the ground.

He wraps Dylan's right arm over his shoulders and uneasily lifts him up, staggering under his weight. He looks at the enraged boy who's been attacking him and assures, "We're leaving," which seems to be enough to get him to back off.

The ball of happiness gets smaller and smaller and is replaced by a debilitating depression.

"You always fucking ruin everything, don't you?" he snaps at Dylan, dragging him down the street.

Dylan laughs drunkenly and hiccups. "You weren't going to kiss her anyway. All of the ecstasy in the world wouldn't have done it for you. You're such a fucking fag, Arthur."

Arthur's heart jerks under his ribcage, and he feels the painful sensation of palpitations chase his euphoria away.

"Fuck you," he huffs because he doesn't know what else to say.

"Thanks. Fuck you, too."

He shifts his attention to Dylan's gash. He thinks he has some hydrogen peroxide in their room and enough gauze to make a dressing for this if it's not too deep. "I can fix that for you," he mumbles, tapping a finger against his brother's forehead.

"You're a doctor now?" Dylan asks, laughing again even though Arthur doesn't understand what's so funny.

"You know what? Just bleed fucking everywhere for all I care."

* * *

When he walks into the diner, there's no sign of Amelia.

It's a charming place though—better than the areas he used to hang around when he was trying to disappear. He goes up to one of the waitresses behind the red and white checkered counter.

"Hello. I'm looking for my daughter and was wondering if you happened to see her around recently? She's fourteen—blonde, blue eyes, glasses, quite tall, and might've been wearing a star barrette in her hair."

The waitress nods. "She didn't pay for her burger. She was with a boy—he was maybe a little older than her."

Arthur sighs. "That sounds like her. I apologize for any trouble. She should know better. How much does she owe you?"

"Eight dollars."

He takes a ten-dollar bill out of his wallet and hands it to the woman. "My apologies, again. Keep the rest. You wouldn't happen to have any idea where they could've gone?"

"I saw them get on a motorcycle and go down the road  _that_ way," the waitress says, pointing out the diner's windows and to the right.

"Thank you."

That's not much to go on—they could be anywhere.

He doesn't think they'd go too far from here though…

He gets back in his car and keeps right in the direction the waitress told him they went. He follows the road for ten minutes, and when he doesn't see any sign of them, he pulls over for a moment and decides he's going to try calling Amelia. Maybe she'll get tired of ignoring him.

He shifts his car into park, but before he can even reach into his pocket for his phone, it begins to ring.

She's calling him.

He doesn't even have to pick up to know something has happened.

"Hello? Amelia, are you all right?"

She's sobbing. "I'm okay, but Ivan—he fell, and I don't know what to do. H-He's bleeding and, and—!"

He wants to say the boy deserved it for stealing his daughter away from him and turning her into someone unrecognizable, but he knows that's not true. Ivan is not the problem, as much as he would like to blame him. If not Ivan, Amelia would have just found some other boy to be rebellious with.

"Okay, darling, just stay calm. Is he conscious?"

"Yeah, he just hurt his leg pretty bad."

"Did you fall as well?"

"No, I wasn't on the motorcycle with him. He was trying to show me something, and…Please, hurry. He's bleeding a lot."

_Thank God she's not hurt._

"Can you tell me where you are?"

They're on some random street, and she gives him the address to a hardware store that they're standing across from. They're in the industrial part of town—lots of warehouses and construction, which makes for a perfect area to speed on one's motorcycle, he assumes.

"I'm on my way. I'll be there in ten minutes. Stay with him."

"Okay."

He hangs up, puts the car back into drive, and follows his GPS to where they are, trying to calm his heart the entire way. He's not sure how it hasn't exploded yet.

The first thing he notices is a boy sitting up on the curb with a hole in his jeans and a bloodied leg. The motorcycle is covered in scratches and parked beside a fire hydrant. Amelia seems uninjured, as she said on the phone, but she's clearly very upset.

He gets out of the car and goes over to them. Amelia's lecture can wait. Unfortunately, he has to tend to the boy first, which is something he never thought he'd have to do.

"I'm Amelia's father," he says by way of introduction to Ivan as he approaches them. Then, he crouches down to the teen boy's level and assesses the damage. "How did this happen?"

"I was turning when a stray cat ran right in front of my wheel. I swerved and fell off."

"What about the cat?"

"Didn't hit it."

"And what was Amelia doing?"

Ivan bites his lip and hisses when Arthur palpates the area around his tibia. "She was standing off to the side…I was going to show her a stunt…"

"Do I want to know what kind of stunt?"

"No, probably not," Ivan says frankly, crying out in pain again.

"Sorry, lad. You're going to have to be taken to the emergency room for an x-ray. Seems like a fracture. You'll also likely need some sutures for the laceration you have," he explains, helping the boy stand. "Careful now…Be thankful it wasn't worse. Motorcycles are dangerous."

"Don't lecture him, Dad. He knows," Amelia grumbles.

"I wasn't speaking to you. We're going to discuss this later. You should be at home—you're grounded."

Amelia crosses her arms and looks away.

"From now on, either your papa or I will drive you to and from school."

She looks ready to argue, but he shakes his head and makes it clear with just one firm expression that now is not the time.

He gets Ivan settled in the passenger's seat and has Amelia sit in the back.

"Thank you, Mr. Kirkland-Bonnefoy…"

Arthur purses his lips and nods because he can't trust himself to speak at the moment. He focuses on the road, drives in silence to the nearest hospital, parks the car once more, and helps the boy into the ER.

It's a bit of a wait, but Ivan does get called within the hour, and once he has a bed, Arthur excuses himself and Amelia for a moment and walks out of the room with her. He can't wait any longer to have this talk with her.

"If you were ever hurt because you were on a motorcycle, I would  _never_  be able to forgive myself. Do you understand?" he says once they're out of earshot.

"…I'm careful."

"Don't lie to me, Amelia. You easily could have been sitting on that bike with him, and it could've been worse than a leg fracture. So much worse…"

"I wouldn't let that happen."

"You wouldn't necessarily be able to prevent it, but there's something else…" Arthur continues, feeling a deep frown starting to develop on his face. "You have my attention now, and you've taught me a lesson. I haven't been entirely honest with you, and so how could I expect you to be honest with me?"

Amelia stares down at her shoes.

He's going to tell her. If he doesn't say it now, then he never will.

"I'm sick, Amelia…I have a brain tumor."

…

Three seconds are all it takes for her to burst into tears again and squeeze him tight around his middle. "Y-You promised! You promised you weren't going to die!"

"I'm  _not_  going to die."

"You've got a brain tumor, and I've just been making things worse, haven't I?" she wails.

"No, no, love. None of this is your fault. You're a teenager. It's in your nature to rebel. I don't blame you for anything," he insists, rubbing her back. "…I love you, and I promise I'm not going anywhere. I'm going to be right here. I'll  _always_ be here for you, okay?"

She nods, but it doesn't seem convincing. "Is it like cancer or something?"

"I don't know if it's cancerous, but the chances are very good that it's not."

"What's going to happen to you?"

"I'm going to the neurologist tomorrow. Dr. Oxenstierna—you've met him. I'll likely start radiation therapy and see if the tumor gets smaller and the symptoms go away."

"And you might be all better after that?"

Arthur nods reassuringly. "Yes, I might be all better…"

"But what if you're not?"

"Then, I'll probably have surgery."

"Brain surgery?"

"Yes."

"That sounds scary."

"It is."

"Are you scared?"

He kisses her head and nods. "Yes, a little."

"I'm so sorry, Dad."

"Me, too."

He cradles her close and feels as though  _finally_ he is with the Amelia he has always known. His sweet, beautiful daughter, who should never have to go through any pain or suffering.

"You and Madeline are the best things that ever happened to me," he whispers.

"…I just want you to see me as a grown-up…I want you to trust me and love me."

"I  _do_  love you…I love you, your sister, and your papa more than anything else in the world. And I'm working on the trust part—but you make it difficult when you do things like this," he says, chuckling a little at the last part. "You're still grounded, and you're still being escorted to and from school."

"Okay. That's fair…Please, don't break your promise."

"I won't," he assures again. "But can you promise me one thing, too?"

"What?"

"Do not  _ever_ get on a motorcycle again. That's my one request. Rebel in other ways if you want—I can emotionally handle those."

"…Okay, Dad. I promise."

"Thank you."

"So, everything's gonna be okay?"

"Yes. I'll make sure of it," he says, letting out a heavy breath. "Tonight, the four of us—you, Madeline, Papa, and I—will all sit down and talk about my situation and what we're going to do about it."

"All right…I'm glad."

"And as for this boy…You like him, don't you?"

Amelia sheepishly nods.

"Okay. Let's go and check on him. If you really like him, I am willing to give him a chance."

"You're not angry?"

"Oh, I am. I'm angry that you disappeared, didn't answer your phone when your papa called you, and put yourself in a dangerous situation. I haven't forgotten nor forgiven any of that…But I'm not angry that you like this boy."

"Wow, you really are super sick, then. We should hurry up and get you home soon," Amelia jokes light-heartedly, and Arthur nudges her in the ribs gently.

"I can still change my mind about him."

Lesson number four—love means doing things together, even if it hurts.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoy this next chapter! Thank you for still supporting this story! I'm really excited about where it's going. All feedback is appreciated!
> 
> Warning: brief mentions of blood and some strong language.

 

_**London, 1984** _

" _Bloody fuckin' hell! That hurts!"_

" _Shut up and hold still. Of course it hurts, you hit your head...You're going to wake everyone up if you keep moaning."  
_

Arthur tosses aside another square of blood-soaked gauze and reaches for a fresh piece. He continues to gently dab away at the gash on his brother's forehead. Fortunately, the bleeding seems to be slowing.

The rest of the house is silent—even the street outside of their window seems surprisingly devoid of life tonight. No rowdy men coming home late, honking cars, or angry, drunken shouting — just the cool wash of nighttime creeps over them. If they wake their mother, she will have their heads and set them out for tomorrow's dinner.

So, it's just him and Dylan—both under the influence and banded together by an impaired sense of camaraderie. For a split second, Arthur feels a stir of kinship, but then that second is lost when Dylan smacks his arm firmly and says, "Stop that already!"

"Do you want an infection?" Arthur huffs, searching for the antibiotic ointment he keeps in one of his desk drawers. When one is as frequently bludgeoned with fists and knocked around as he is at school, being prepared with the proper supplies is essential.

He smears some of the ointment onto the wound with the clean gauze, spreading it liberally. Then, he takes another square of gauze and tapes it to his brother's head, minding his hair.

"There. You're welcome."

"Thanks," Dylan grunts before producing a loud burp.

"You're disgusting."

"I do my best...Where'd you get all this?"

Arthur purses his lips, throws away the soiled gauze, and goes into the bathroom to wash his hands without offering any explanation. He hasn't eaten lunch at school for over three months now. Instead, all of that money has gone into funding his makeshift first-aid kit. It's no trouble, really. He finds that he doesn't have much of an appetite these days anyway. His body lacks the motivation needed to eat...It lacks motivation for many things, truth be told.

He lathers his hands with soap and water, scrubs away at his palms and fingertips, and raises his eyes to look at himself in the mirror. When did he become so expressionless and cold? He's still waiting to grow some facial hair and yet...he already seems to have aged in other ways. His eyes appear older. His gaze is blank. He is more skeleton than boy.

He dries his hands, hurries back to his and Dylan's room, and slithers into his bottom bunk, trying to get comfortable under the heavy duvet.

Dylan rubs his nauseous stomach, leans against the wall behind his own bunk above him, and then says, "I'm sorry we're so fucked up, Arthur."

He lets the words submerge him. Doesn't say a word in response. Just thinks of that brief high of ecstasy and wonders if he will ever experience any kind of joy resembling that ever again.

_Not likely_ , he convinces himself.

_I'm drowning_.

* * *

"Where have you both been?" is the first thing that comes out of Francis's mouth.

When Arthur and Amelia step through the front door together, there is an awful pause. Amelia exchanges a sidelong glance with Arthur, and knows she cannot say anything at all. She merely swipes at her bloodshot eyes, swallows hard, and dashes to her room before Francis can direct any more questions at her.

"It's been handled," is Arthur's response as he's slipping out of his coat, and this is as close to the truth as he's going to get. Ivan's mother came to see to him in the emergency room, and he was discharged into her care along with a set of crutches. A few weeks in a cast, and he'll be fine. Perhaps this'll teach him to be a bit more cautious on that bike of his. "Amelia and I had a discussion about her behavior...and I think we both came to a mutual understanding…She's all right—she just needs time to think things through. How is Madeline faring?"

It seems like Francis isn't sure what he's supposed to believe anymore, but he continues playing along for his sake. "Well, I hope your talk was effective...Madeline is still running a fever."

"I'll bring her another dose of ibuprofen. She took her antibiotic?"

" _Oui._ She was reading in bed when I checked on her fifteen minutes ago."

Arthur nods, takes a step forward to peck Francis with a kiss and mumbles very quietly, "When you have a moment later tonight, there's something I'd like to discuss."

"Of course,  _mon amour_. Is everything all right?"

"No...I'm afraid not."

Francis stiffens. His lips tug down into a frown, but he does not insist on knowing more right away. Instead, he kisses Arthur back, and whispers, "All right. Whatever it is, we'll take care of it...Whenever you're ready."

"After the girls go to bed."

This gives Arthur a few hours to rehearse what he's going to say and how he's going to say it. If he approaches it very clinically, perhaps it'll be easier. Meningioma in his frontal lobe. Three centimeters. Only a ten percent chance that it's cancer. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all.

He enters Madeline's room and finds her fast asleep with a book resting on her chest and her earbuds still in. Her cheeks are semi-flushed but not as rosy as before. The sound of her breathing is steady and regular, and she doesn't appear to be in any distress.

_She looks so peaceful._

He feels his heart constrict with indescribable, crushing pain.

Although he doesn't want to, he softly brushes a hand over her warm forehead to wake her, and she reluctantly wakes, eyes still rather glassy.

"I'm sorry for waking you, love, but it's time for you to take another dose of ibuprofen...It'll help you rest."

"Okay," Madeline says, taking her next pill and glass of water without protest, as usual. When Arthur takes the glass from her and sets it down on the nightstand, she clears her throat and asks, "How are you?"

He smiles and pats her arm reassuringly. "I'm all right. I'll feel better once you've recovered. You should go back to sleep. Let me know if you need anything, please."

"Okay. Goodnight, Dad."

"Goodnight."

" _Please tell Papa_."

"...I will, poppet."

He switches off the light, tiptoes away, and once he is certain Amelia has settled down for the night as well and is sleeping, he dares going back to the master bedroom where Francis is undoubtedly waiting for him.

* * *

_**London, 1985** _

"Patrick, not now. Not like this—please."

"I'm sorry, Mum. I can't stay here. I've left some money on the—"

"To hell with the money! You think I care about that?"

"I can't stay."

"Is Caroline going with you?"

"Yes."

Arthur knew this day was coming. He could sense it from the moment Patrick brought Caroline home for the first time. He wants to move on and start a new life with her. Although Arthur can sympathize with this, that doesn't make Patrick any less of a bastard. Instead of announcing this months in advance and planning for it, he's just going to disappear?

He really is _just_ like their father. Can't even be bothered to say a proper goodbye.

Except, this time, Arthur is older, understands what is happening, and has a voice he can use.

He barrels into the kitchen and throws himself at Patrick, knocking him into the refrigerator.

"Arthur!" his mother scolds him, but he barely hears her. Everything else around him is irrelevant at the moment.

"You're going to put her through this  _again_?" he snarls at his brother, and though the size and age difference between them is quite big, Arthur finally feels like  _he_  is the one towering over Patrick for once.

"I didn't want things to be this way," Patrick says, calmly, trying to pry Arthur's hands off of his shirt.

"I don't give a fuck how you wanted things to be. How fucking dare you?"

"Arthur!" his mother continues.

"You're going to leave us over that girl?"

"That girl has a name, and she's made me happier than I've ever been. This house is a  _prison_."

"We  _need_  you."

"You don't need anyone, Arthur. It's important that you learn this now before you get even more disappointed in the future."

"If you walk away, I'll never forgive you, Patrick. I'll never call you my brother again!" Arthur screams at him, shaking him as hard as he dares. He's not sure why he's so upset. He didn't think he would ever care if he woke up one morning and his brothers fell off of the face of the earth. But this is different...He's leaving with some woman—a woman he's not even married to.

Patrick sighs down at him as though he is still nothing but a little boy who does not understand adulthood, and says, without a drop of empathy, "I suppose we can't be brothers any longer then."

And that's it.

That's that.

Another person betrays him.

He could scream but what's the use?

In the morning, Patrick will be gone...Off to Ireland with Caroline.

And Arthur will wake up to a house with one less person in it. It will feel colder. He will sink deeper into the ocean.

He's starting to lose air.

* * *

The walk across the hallway has never felt so long until now. His palms begin to sweat, the weakness and dizziness that seem to plague him 24/7 since his symptoms started getting more aggressive start to flare up with greater intensity again. He has a sensation of drowning. Can't catch his breath. The surface is light-years above him.

He crosses the threshold.

Francis is on the edge of their bed.

Arthur has walked into this room countless times to find the man in the same position, but tonight is different. He is meeting his husband for the first time. Is looking at him and seeing through him all at the same time.

"What is it,  _mon coeur_?" he asks lightly as he stands up and stretches his arms out to catch Arthur—to pull him up from the water. His life jacket. His friend. The one who was worth living for. The one who took a chance on him. The second father to their children. Francis. His Francis. His sweet, silly, soulmate of a frog.

Just another person to add to the list of loved ones he might lose.  
 _  
Weak, always so weak. Love is a weakness. Love will steal everything from you._

A sob bubbles up out of him first, followed by the rushed words—he says them so fast because he can't bear to hang onto them any longer. He can't be clinical about this. Not with Francis. Francis is all feeling, all emotion—the only one who can take his heart from him and manage not to harm it.

_"I have a brain tumor."_

He feels like he's momentarily deaf. Francis falls to his knees and pulls him down with him, kneeling on the bedroom floor, muttering swears and what might be a feeble prayer to God. His fingers curl around Arthur's collar, hanging tight.

Francis doesn't let go. He has  _never_ let go.

"Arthur, Arthur... _Mon Dieu_ , Arthur."

"I'm so sorry."

"Arthur…"

"It might be benign. I don't know yet."

"Arthur."

"I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't want you to worry."

Francis squeezes him until his ribs hurt, murmuring his name again and again, as though it will validate his existence and that he's still here and safe.

" _Mon amour_ , how long have you known?"

"I found out after the accident."

Francis sobs now, too, wetting Arthur's shirt. He wraps one hand around the back of Arthur's head, and they lean into one another. They're together. A team. There's nothing they haven't been able to work through.

"I will do whatever needs to be done, Arthur. Whatever you need—"

"I know."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

"Why couldn't you tell me?"

"I don't know," Arthur chokes out.

_You don't need anyone._

"How have you been getting up in the morning? How have you been functioning? How—? I can't imagine...I don't know if I would have been able to tell you either," Francis admits. "You've told me many things that have taken a lot of strength to say…"

_But it's okay to want someone…_

"I'm so  _sorry_."

"No, no, shh…It's going to be okay. We will fight this. We've handled worse," Francis assures, wiping his face clean of tears and regaining control of his breathing.

"Have we?"

"I almost left you when you set fire to the kitchen in 1999, and look, here we are."

Arthur can't help the snort of laughter that escapes him in between the wretched hiccups of breath.

_This is why you love him._

Francis's hand smooths itself through his hair, mapping out his skull before his fingers come to rest at the crown of his head. "But if we're going to make this better,  _mon cher_ , then you are going to have to take your health more seriously."

"I do take it seriously."

"You won't recover if you continue driving yourself into the ground."

"I have an appointment with neurology tomorrow."

"I'm coming with you."

"You have work."

"As if that matters right now," Francis mutters with a scoff before placing a very gentle kiss against his brow. "You matter to me more than any job...How are we going to tell the girls?"

Arthur looks at a spot on the carpet and says, "They already know."

"You told them before you told your husband?"

"Madeline knew before I even said a word, and I told Amelia shortly before we arrived home…"

Francis clicks his tongue but doesn't make a fuss over it, surprisingly enough. "We're going to have a family meeting about this tomorrow, once we find out what the doctor tells you."

"Okay...I can go alone, you know. Stay home with Madeline."

"She will be fine resting in bed on her own for an hour or two. She'll understand."

"I know she will, but that's not the point."

"I want to go with you," Francis whispers, making the hairs on the back of Arthur's neck stand up. "We're going to do this together, even if I have to drag you along, kicking and screaming."

Arthur permits himself a smile.

He can breathe at last.

* * *

_**London, 1986** _

The spiral is intoxicating. Every hour spent with Dylan and his friends when it's past his curfew, every poor mark at school, every drink, every single thing he does to self-lacerate and sabotage himself—he doesn't know why he does it, but it's addictive. Is it punishment or indulgence? Sometimes, it feels like both.

He slips into the role of disgruntled, problematic, angst-ridden teen very well. He's an inconvenience to everyone including himself, so stirring up trouble every now and then feels like he's just fulfilling a duty. It adds some adrenaline to his numb, unfeeling body.

He pierces his ear in three places on a dare from Dylan because why the hell not? Left-ear, of course. When his mother notices, she hits him twenty times with a wooden hairbrush. This doesn't stop him from then piercing his tongue. He goes mute for several weeks while at home to hide it, and it works. HIs mother simply thinks he's giving her the silent treatment or evading her for other reasons.

Not that there's much sense in going home right now. Mum didn't pay the gas bill again. Even with Alistair's new part-time job stocking shelves at Tesco, it's not enough. Not to mention Alistair is likely to be sacked any day now. He's not exactly a model employee.

Arthur and Dylan expect they'll be pushed to look for work soon as well, but until then, wandering around Wood Green, rolling their own cigarettes, and picking arbitrary fights with other boys satiates their need to distance themselves from home as much as possible.

It's fun—running from the police, prowling around without any specific goal in mind, feeling invincible…

It was fun, at least.

Arthur learns precisely why Dylan suggested they start carrying knives around for protection, but it's a little too late. A rival gang of boys unsettles one of Dylan's friends and a fight breaks out—a violent fight.

He will not remember very much of this fight. He will be too busy bleeding out from a stab wound to the lower right side of his abdomen. The pain is horrific. He's not sure how he stays conscious through it for as long as he does. Perhaps the shock keeps him awake, but he remembers screams, sirens, blue flashing lights, and Dylan rolling him onto his back. The sky is black. The air feels frigid against his skin even though he's wearing a jacket.

He looks down, sees the massive bloodstain leaking through his white t-shirt, and instead of being panicked or reacting in what he assumes is a normal human's reaction to being stabbed, he thinks,  _I hope this kills me_.

He is rushed to the hospital, half-awake as he is pumped with oxygen and pain medication. A paramedic puts pressure on the wound, and he moans.

Dylan sits off to the side in the back of the ambulance, hands covered in his coagulated blood.

He is put to sleep before they even get to the hospital. From what he will gather later, he undergoes an emergency laparotomy, but it turns out all of his organs and his digestive tract miraculously make it through unscathed. The trauma is superficial. A row of sutures, a blood transfusion, and he's fixed.

_Perhaps you're a cat—you have nine lives._

Needless to say, his mother puts him on house arrest once he's discharged.

* * *

"Have a good day at school,  _ma_ _chérie_. We love you! We love you so much that we are very emotionally invested in your education, so we hope you do well on your geography test!"

Amelia grabs her backpack, hops out of the car, flips her hair, and mutters, "I'm fourteen! You're so embarrassing, Papa!"

Francis suppresses a chuckle and makes a funny face while Arthur momentarily gets out of the passenger's seat to hug Amelia against her will. He encloses her in his arms and says loudly, "You always make us so proud, darling!"

"Get off of me!" Amelia huffs, shaking him off and quickly glancing around her to make sure no one of significance has witnessed the exchange. "I have to go."

Arthur and Francis laugh softly again as she stomps away. One day, maybe she will come to appreciate their affection like she did before puberty struck and zapped all of her childish joy. Though she may wave off their hugs and kisses now, it's important that they continue offering them.

Arthur returns to the car, puts his seatbelt on, and checks his phone to make sure he doesn't have any missed calls or text messages from Madeline—nothing. She's likely sleeping after having had the breakfast Francis prepared for her.

Francis drives them to Oxenstierna's practice, and they arrive within just fifteen minutes. It's too quick of a trip for Arthur's liking.

Arthur is more nervous than he thought he would be. Walking into the office and sitting down in the waiting room feels shameful. He doesn't realize he's bouncing his leg up and down until Francis sets a calming hand on his knee and flashes him a warm smile.

His husband picks up a fashion magazine and points to a men's chambray romper and asks, "Can I please dress you in this?"

Arthur doesn't even offer him a verbal response. He simply shoots him a baleful look.

"I would reward you, you know...I know you've been wanting to experiment with—"

He immediately turns red in the face and drives his elbow into Francis's side to shut him up. There are other patients around!

Francis merely snorts with laughter and goes back to flipping through the magazine. "Okay,  _mon amour_ , we can talk about it later."

Arthur's fairly sure a woman sitting across from them is eyeing them suspiciously now.

After another ten minutes of staring down at his shoes and trying desperately to ignore Francis's sly expressions, his name is called. His heart skips a beat as he gets up.

Francis trots beside him, takes hold of his hand, and squeezes it. "It's okay,  _cher_."

They enter an exam room. He's been good today—he hasn't vomited yet or had a migraine, so maybe there's an increased chance this will all blow over.

Though it hurts his pride to have to do so, Arthur seats himself on the exam table and watches Francis take up the chair in the corner. First, a medical assistant takes his vitals. Then, a physician's assistant takes his history and briefly examines his eyes and tests his motor-skills. When asked to close his eyes, stretch his arm out in front of him, and then touch his nose while keeping his eyes shut, he passes. He also passes the vision test. His memory, on the other hand, could be better.

It's just a matter of waiting to speak to Oxenstierna after that. When the man comes in, he is his usual stoic self, revealing nothing. He greets Arthur and Francis, adjusts his glasses, consults the electronic chart on the computer for a moment, and then says, "I think the best thing to do would be to get an MRI, see if it's easily operable, and if it is, have surgery. If it looks easily operable on the MRI, it's likely benign and your symptoms will go away once it's removed. I'll refer you to a surgeon who—"

Time feels as though it stops. The words being directed at him sound muddled and confusing. The dizziness in his head gets worse, and then, he starts to seize.

Oxenstierna and Francis both stop him from nearly falling off the exam table and manage to get him lying down on his side while his limbs continue to jerk and move without his permission. It feels like it only goes on for a brief moment, but it's several minutes long, and he doesn't remember most of it.

When he snaps back to reality, Francis is leaning over him and stroking his head. "Arthur?"

"T-Terribly sorry about that," he rasps.

Francis looks to Oxenstierna for an explanation, at which point the man says, "When the tumor increases the level of pressure in the brain, seizures can occur...I'll prescribe you some steroids for the cerebral swelling and an anti-convulsant, Arthur. Let's try to get you that MRI as soon as possible."

Arthur nods, feeling better and more aware with each passing minute. With Francis's help, he carefully sits up.

"Also, I'm sure you already know this, but you're going to have to take time off of work," Oxenstierna adds, firm.

"I'll work while I still can."

"If you push yourself, it's going to get worse...You're also about twelve pounds underweight."

Francis raises a stern brow at this news and finds it to be his cue to intervene. "He understands, Dr. Oxenstierna. He will no longer be working until after he has recovered from the surgery—if he is to have it."

"You can't make that decision for me," Arthur growls, but the glare Francis levels at him is enough to convince him they can fight about this when they get home.

He gets his prescriptions, is scheduled for the MRI in two weeks time, and that should be the end of the visit, but Francis stays behind to have a personal discussion with Oxenstierna about what he can do to "help." Nothing is going to help until the tumor is out of him. Doesn't he understand that?

Ten minutes later, they're walking back to the car, equally frustrated with one another and in sour moods.

"I told you that you haven't been taking care of yourself, Arthur. I wanted to trust you to handle it. I thought you knew better as a doctor yourself. Instead, you've let yourself become malnourished and sleep-deprived. And now, look, you're having seizures in the doctor's office!"

"Eating an apple isn't going to help, Francis. What do you want me to do?"

"But you would feel at least somewhat better if you took care of your body. It's under enough stress as is. You're refusing to feed it and give it the rest it needs. I don't need a medical degree to know you've been reckless with your health. You're taking the next few weeks off and staying home. That's it. I'm not going to allow you to continue killing yourself."

"Going to send me to my room, are you? I think you have me confused with one of the girls. You could show me a little more respect."

"This isn't about respect. It's about protecting you."

"I didn't ask for your protection."

"You don't have to—I'm your husband."

"That doesn't give you the right to dictate what I can and cannot do."

Francis slams his fist angrily against the wheel, stops the car, and shouts, "No, it doesn't, but who's going to be the one crying over your grave and taking care of the girls if you don't recover? Me! And you'll be gone!  _Merde!_  You'll be  _dead_!"

.........

"...I'm sorry, Arthur."

"No, you're right," Arthur whispers into the ugly silence, eyes screwed shut. He purses his lips, unlocks the passenger's door, and gets out of the car. "Sorry, I'll walk home. I need a moment."

"Please, get back in the car. I shouldn't have said it that way. I lost my patience, and it was wrong of me," Francis pleads, putting the car in park before stepping out as well.

"I just need some space right now."

"No. I'm not letting you deal with this on your own again. You've been doing enough of that. I'm here to stay, whether you like it or not."

"Francis, go away. I won't ask again. I just want to  _fucking_  walk myself home, all right?"

"I won't let you push me away!" Francis screams at him, disrupting the quiet, suburban neighborhood. "I hate this! I hate that you  _always_  do this!"

"Then, leave!"

"No! Fuck you! I'm not fucking leaving, you fucking English bastard! Damn you!"

_This is insanity._

Arthur keeps marching away, farther and farther. He waits for Francis's footsteps to start fading but they don't. They just keep trailing after him, footfall after footfall, beat after beat. On, and on, and on.

"Arthur!"

_Keep walking._

" _I love you_ , Arthur, and I'm  _terrified_ , but I will walk to the end of this damned Earth if I have to. I fucking promise. I will never, ever, ever break that promise."

He stops.

Arms wrap around his middle and pull him back. He can feel the relief in them.

"Tell me you would do the same for me," Francis whispers into his ear.

"You know I would do anything…"

"Then you know why I'm asking you to stop and rest. When you had that seizure—I thought the worst. Please don't ever make me go through that again."

Arthur lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding, and says, "I'm terrified, too."

He's running out of lives.

"Then, let's go home,  _mon amour._ "


	9. Chapter 9

_**London, 1988** _

As Arthur feared, the moment he turns sixteen, Mum decides he's ready to take on his first job. She expects that some labor will drain the rebellious streak out of him, keep him sufficiently occupied and out of trouble, and, most importantly, bring home another paycheck. Arthur's issue, however, is not so much with the idea of being put to work, but rather with the type of job his mother secures him.

Instead of letting him wash dishes at a local restaurant or work part-time as a cashier like normal boys his age, she tells him about Mrs. Flynne—a widow suffering from dementia who needs an extra pair of hands to tidy up her house, take care of her two cats, and offer her some social interaction. It sounds mindless, dull, and degrading, at first.

Is this his mother's way of saying she wants him to follow in her footsteps as a home health aide? How touching. Dylan gets to work at a hardware store while he has to be an old woman's babysitter? Where's the justice in that?

"I think you'll learn a great deal from this experience. Please behave yourself—Mrs. Flynne is unwell. You must be patient with her. Treat her as though she is your relative—with dignity and respect," his mother lectures him as he's getting dressed for his first day. He substitutes his torn-up black jeans and paint-splattered  _Pink Floyd_  t-shirt for corduroy trousers and a blue crewneck sweater that Alistair never wears anymore because his fashion sense has fortunately evolved from that of boy-dressed-by-his-mother to proper man.

"You make it sound as though you think I'm going to attempt to kill her."

"Arthur—it isn't funny."

"I didn't say it was."

"Open your mouth."

"Why?"

"Pull out the tongue piercing...Now! How many times do I have to tell you?" his mother howls, swatting him over the head with a calloused, withering hand that keeps looking older and wearier. "Gentlemen do not have piercings. I will not have my son showing up to work in such an unprofessional state!"

Arthur rolls his eyes but obediently spits the silver tongue ring out and narrows his eyes. "Happy?"

"Don't use that tone. Remember that you're to come  _straight_  home after you've finished helping Mrs. Flynne. Is that clear?"

He nods, but whether or not he'll actually follow her orders is something he has yet to determine.

Fifteen minutes later, he's pushed out of the house and must make his way to the tube to get to Mrs. Flynne's home. She lives in Primrose Hill, so she must be quite well-off. He can't imagine why she would be interested in hiring an unqualified teen such as himself.

The house is pastel yellow, which is a color Arthur can't say he's very fond of because it reminds him far too much of bile. Regardless, he knocks twice and waits to be invited inside, shoulders slouched and hands in his pockets even though if his mother were here she would tell him to stand like a proper gentleman. There's a tiny garden out front— the violets seem in need of water.

A minute passes...and then two.

"Mrs. Flynne?" he calls, a little hopeful that perhaps she's fallen asleep, and he'll be able to leave.

Much to his chagrin, he hears muffled movement in the distance before a sharp voice shrieks by the door, "I already said I don't want anything, John! Go away!"

"Errmm...My name isn't John, Mrs. Flynne. It's Arthur Kirkland—you spoke to my mother the other day. She said I might be able to help, but if you've changed your mind then that's no problem at all, and I can just be on my way—"

"Oh!" Mrs. Flynne exclaims, realizing her mistake. Immediately, the door comes flying open with a  _whoosh_.

She's a frail, petite woman. The wrinkles on her forehead and chin fail to give her a friendly appearance at first glance—she perpetually seems irritated instead. Her hair is gray and sparse, there are thick reading glasses perched midway down the bridge of her nose, and she smells of rosemary.

Mustering what few manners he has left, Arthur holds out a hand to her in order to introduce himself, but she doesn't bother shaking it. In fact, she doesn't even look at it. She simply glares at him, grumbles something about how she was wondering when he was going to arrive, and walks back inside without showing him in.

_"Maxine needs her nails trimmed."_

"Maxine?"

Mrs. Flynne turns her head to the right and gestures to one of her Siamese cats before she hands Arthur a pair of pet nail clippers, offering nothing further in terms of explanation.

She stares at him as though he's a complete idiot, and finally, he understands that this is his cue to approach Maxine.

He can't say he's had any significant experience with cats, but how hard could it be?

He crouches down in front of the deceptively innocent-looking creature and attempts to grab her front right paw.

At once, she hisses at him, makes her long claws known by protracting them, and then savagely buries them into the back of his wrist, drawing blood. It's like a cluster of small needles impaling themselves into his sensitive flesh.

"Agh!"

"You didn't greet her," Mrs. Flynne huffs, clearly finding him to be in the wrong rather than her sweet, dear Maxine.

"I wasn't aware I was supposed to—"

"You might as well do Olivia's as well. When you're done, make sure to sweep the floor."

_What a bitter, old woman_ , Arthur thinks to himself, internally fuming. She doesn't deserve anyone's help. It's no wonder she's all alone in this bile-colored house. She and her damn cats can rot in the pits of hell for all he cares and—

An odd noise rises from Mrs. Flynne's throat, and her eyes dart around the room, as though searching for something but unable to place it.

Arthur bites his lip and continues his assault on the cat's claws, trying to keep up the fuel for his anger. He allows the sting from the scratches to consume his every thought. It only occurs to him midway through Maxine's back left paw that he should have found a pair of gloves. He's probably going to contract cat's scratch disease now and die, but oh well. What a way to go out that would be…How many lives is he running on now?

When he's finished, he watches Mrs. Flynne walk into the kitchen to retrieve a box of cat treats. Maxine happily pads alongside her, meows affectionately, and devours three of the small biscuits.

"Maxine needs her nails trimmed," Mrs. Flynne repeats, blinking slowly and squinting her eyes.

"I just trimmed them, Mrs. Flynne..." Arthur says, trying not to sound annoyed and failing.

He stands and observes the old woman for a moment, and yes—she's here and not here at the same time…It's hard to say how aware she is of his presence or his purpose here.

She must have had a family at some point, no? Maybe a husband and kids? Where'd they all go? Did she scare them off?

He then hears Mrs. Flynne's stomach grumble.

"Have you had anything to eat today?" he asks her in a voice that is softer than how he intended for it to come out.

"To eat?"

"Yes. Breakfast and lunch? It's half two."

She doesn't seem to have an answer for him.

"...Can I make you something to eat?"

Mrs. Flynne's eyebrows lift slightly in surprise as she says, "Eggs on toast."

"All right…"

He goes over to the cupboard, and as he's crossing the kitchen, he sees a list on the fridge written on a wide-ruled sheet of paper. They're reminders–everything ranging from when to take out the rubbish bins, check for any post, water the plants, when John is supposed to visit (he's still not sure who this John fellow is, but he must be important), and the times at which she should take her medication.

"Have you taken your blood pressure medication? It says here that you're supposed to have it with breakfast…"

She looks at him with pale blue eyes and scrunches her face in contemplation. "I-I think so. Yes."

"Are you certain?"

"Do you take me for an idiot? I'm  _not_  senile!"

"I didn't say you were... My apologies if you took offense…"

"That tongue of yours is going to get you into a great deal of trouble, boy."

He smirks and decides it's probably best if he lets her insult and attack him as much as she pleases. She's not actually capable of any harm, and a person her age has earned the right to complain about people anyway, he supposes. He's only sixteen and he  _already_  hates people. Mrs. Flynne could very well be him someday–though he doubts he'll ever live to be as old as her.

"Right then. Eggs on toast. Would you like a cup of tea as well?"

"Yes. Hot. Very hot...Don't forget Olivia's nails…"

"I won't."

"You say that now, but I don't know if I can trust you."

He'd be concerned if she said she  _did_ trust him when he can't even find it in him to trust himself.

"Don't worry, Mrs. Flynne. I promise not to forget."

* * *

"Isn't this a little excessive?"

Arthur shrugs his shoulders and continues to line up an assortment of medications and supplements in the bathroom–one for pain, a steroid for inflammation, an anticonvulsant, some multivitamins that he's certain are going to do absolutely nothing for him but if he keeps them around then maybe they will at least bring Francis some solace and peace of mind...

"I'm sorry things have to be this way,  _mon amour_."

He knows he's being sullen and sulky like a child who hasn't gotten their way, but he doesn't have the strength to put on chipper airs after he had to call his supervisor this morning and request three weeks of sick leave–which he will likely have to extend should he go through with surgery, and the odds of that are quite high.

What is he going to do with himself with so much leisure time on his hands? He's not sure he knows how to be a regular person with hobbies and a life outside of work, aside from being with the girls, of course. And besides, they're much too old now to be interested in his company unless he's specifically needed for something. They have school, extra-curriculars, friends–and boys who are more than friends, apparently.

"Please don't take this the wrong way, but I think it will be good to have you home. You can focus more on  _family_ ," Francis emphasizes, reading his mind yet again. "In fact, you should do something with the girls this weekend. Madeline should be feeling better by then,  _non_?"

"Do something with them? Like what?"

"I don't know. Maybe there's a movie they want to see?"

Arthur scoffs and closes the medicine cabinet. "They're fourteen, Francis. They're not going to want to see a movie with their father."

"Why not?"

"When I was fourteen—"

"Oh, believe me,  _I know_. Your mother, bless her soul, once told me the stories," Francis interrupts with a little laugh. "I don't think you should cast the idea aside so quickly. The relationship we have with the girls is important, especially since they don't have a mother figure in their lives."

"You can pass as their mother," Arthur says, tongue-in-cheek.

"If anyone's their mother, it's you."

"It is  _not_ –"

"Regardless," Francis cuts in again, rolling his eyes. "Spend some alone time with them. It'll be good for all three of you. It doesn't have to be anything extravagant–actually, hold that thought! I have just the thing!"

Francis zips out of the bathroom and back into the master bedroom, searching through some papers scattered on top of the sock drawer–how many times does Arthur have to tell him to stop leaving bills and letters there? That's how the credit card statements keep getting misplaced!

He returns five seconds later with a fresh spring in his step, clearly excited. He holds a colorful flyer up to Arthur's face and waits impatiently for his response.

Arthur reads the heading at the top and instantly frowns. This has to be some sort of prank. "Really? Cooking lessons?"

"Isn't that just  _parfait_? You'll have a splendid time! It'll be an educational experience and a good way to bond. I really do have the best ideas," Francis brags, shoving the flyer into his hands before swiveling around to get to work on the laundry—it's his turn. But before he makes his way downstairs, he adds, "And maybe we can spend some time together, too, over these next few weeks…"

"You're just a reservoir of ideas lately, aren't you?"

"Only for you," Francis says, blowing him a kiss. "I love you!"

Arthur sighs, folds the flyer into fourths so he can put it into his pocket, and says, "Yes, yes, I love you, too."

Then, he decides it's time to check in on Madeline, who has barely left her bed all day, poor girl. She hasn't made a single peep of noise, which is not surprising in the slightest, as she's much too timid and sheepish when ill to ask for anything–the exact opposite of Amelia.

He quietly allows himself into Madeline's bedroom, not wanting to wake her if she's asleep, but he finds her sitting up and writing something in a journal instead, legs stretched out in front of her.

"Hello, love. How are you feeling?"

Madeline puts her pen and the journal down, rubs her face, and offers him a small smile. She scoots over so he can have space to sit down on the edge of the bed. "A little better. My throat doesn't hurt as much."

"That's good–you should start feeling much better once the antibiotic takes full effect."

"Yeah. Is everything okay?"

"Yes, everything's fine...Although I think your papa plans to hold one of his infamous family meetings tonight–you know how fond he is of those."

Madeline giggles and throws her head back against her pillows. "Oh, no. He takes them  _so_  seriously."

"I know, but he insists we have to all sit down and...discuss matters together. He also had another marvelous scheme in mind–he wants me to take you and Amelia for a cooking lesson this weekend."

"And you're going to cook with us?"

"It appears so...Do you not want to do it? We can find something else to do."

"No, no, I think that's great."

"Do you think Amelia will agree to it?"

"Yeah, she will. I think she'll like it a lot," Madeline assures, and the smile on her face seems genuine. She clears her throat with a little wince and adds, "I really hope you feel better, too, Dad."

"Oh, darling, don't worry about me. I'm—"

"No. I mean it, Dad. Please, feel better...And let us know if we can help you somehow. That's what family is for. You can count on us."

Arthur purses his lips and nods. "Thank you, love...Do you need me to bring you anything? More water, cough drops, or tea?"

"I'm okay for now."

"All right. I'll allow you to continue resting then. I apologize for the interruption," Arthur says, getting up off of the bed. He makes it to the threshold and pauses—there's something Francis said that's been irking him, and if he doesn't get it off of his chest now, it's going to continue to plague him. "Madeline, could I ask you something? And I don't want you to have to pacify me with your answer by any means."

"Yeah, and don't worry, I'll be honest."

"Right...Umm...Do you ever wish you had a mother figure?" he asks, and his mouth goes dry from anxiety. All this time, he has tried to be the best parent he could be to the girls, and he knows Francis has always done the same. But he can never be a mother. What if it's harming them? A girl growing up without her mother must be just as difficult as a boy growing up without his father.

Madeline considers the question for a moment, and her face glows as she says, "Well, no. You and papa are like a mom and dad—you're two parents, so it's not that big of a deal. I mean, yeah, I guess it's normal to always wonder, but I don't feel bad about it or anything, if that's what you're asking."

"Good...Thank you," Arthur sighs, and though he feels a little better hearing that, he's not entirely convinced.

* * *

_**London, 1988** _

"I'm sorry Mum sent you to work for that bitch."

"She's not that terrible—she's just an ill, old woman. Besides, I get paid to sit around with her and her cats most of the day anyway. It's easy money," Arthur tells Dylan after his first week. He's taken to wearing long-sleeved shirts and hoodies at all times now to hide the fact that Mrs. Flynne's cats have tried to maul him multiple times.

He and his brother find refuge in the park at night. It's too dodgy for ordinary people to be wandering around here after dusk, so it makes for a good spot to have a smoke and talk. It's normally pretty quiet, and they haven't run into any trouble in the past couple of times they've tried sitting between the shadows of the trees.

"Mmm...Hey, I don't know if Mum told you, but Dad's back in London," Dylan mumbles after taking a drag of his cigarette.

"Fucking bastard...Since when?"

"Maybe three or four days now? He tried stopping by the house—Alistair told me."

"And what happened?"

"Alistair told him to fuck off and slammed the door in his face."

Arthur barks with laughter and borrows Dylan's lighter to light a cigarette of his own. "Yeah, that sounds like something Alistair would do."

"I don't know how to feel about it. Part of me also wants to tell him to fuck off—it's been so fucking long. But...What do you think he looks like now? And what do you think he's doing? Shit, do we even know where the fuck he ever went? Mum knows, but she'll take that secret to the grave," Dylan says, scratching at the stubble on his chin and cheeks. "I want to see him, just to see if he's the same miserable arsehole he always was."

"I'd rather not know," Arthur whispers, leaning his head back and looking up into the rustling leaves of the trees. His father isn't  _really_ his father. He'll never consider him family, and he doesn't care where he is or what's happening to him. He can't believe he was ever naive enough to actually think he could feel anything other than  _contempt_ for the man.

"Yeah, you're right. Fuck him."

" _Fuck him_ ," Arthur readily agrees, lying down in the slightly damp, dewy grass. Even just thinking about his father is exhausting. "I hope I never have to see his pathetic face again."

"I feel the same way about Patrick."

"Who?" Arthur asks bitterly, spitting into the grass.

"Yeah, you're right. We shouldn't say his name. By the way, there's trouble in paradise with him and his lover. Sounds like she isn't in any hurry to get married. Hah, I wonder why."

"I don't feel sorry for either of them."

"We should follow Alistair's example. We know what to do if any of them shows up again."

"So, what you're saying is that we're not going to send them Christmas cards this year?"

Dylan chokes through a fit of laughter and gives Arthur a firm pat on the back. "My, my, you're growing up to be a fine young man, Arthur. You bring this family so much pride and joy. You must get it from me."

* * *

"Attention! The time is now seven fifty-five. Our family meeting will begin in five minutes in the living room! I repeat— five minutes in the living room! Attendance is  _mandatory_ ," Francis calls out across the upstairs hallway, a clipboard and pen at hand.

"Francis, there are only four of us. I daresay you can expect full attendance," Arthur says, rubbing his temples. He just took his pain medication, and it has yet to start working.

"I HAVE TO FINISH MY MATH HOMEWORK," Amelia shouts from her room, aggravating his migraine even more.

"Why didn't you finish it sooner?" Francis asks, peeking his head into Amelia's room and frowning at her.

Amelia stands up from her desk by the wall and says, "It just takes me a long time, okay?"

"It can wait fifteen minutes, then. Come downstairs."

Arthur's not quite sure where Francis's affinity for organizing family meetings and gatherings comes from. Perhaps it's to fill the void he feels from not having much of a connection to his own family—something Arthur can, admittedly, sympathize deeply with. Aside from the occasional holiday or birthday card, he doesn't keep in close contact with his brothers—and Dylan is the only one who religiously sends cards. He  _never_  fails to send a Christmas card, as it's a running joke of theirs. Alistair only thinks to send something when he remembers not to be a total git.

He plops himself down in the center of the living room couch, and the girls sit on either side of him while Francis nibbles on the end of a pen and goes through the notes he has meticulously prepared.

"Don't do that. It's unsanitary," Arthur says, pointing to the pen dangling between Francis's lips.

"It's  _my_  pen, don't worry. I won't be sharing it with anyone," Francis retorts before getting straight to business. "Now, I thought it was about time we all sat down and addressed the elephant in the room."

"You mean the fact that we  _still_ don't have a dog even though I keep putting it as a suggestion in our suggestion box?" Amelia asks, sitting Indian-style and puffing out her cheeks. "I would take care of it and everything, you know."

"Your suggestion will be taken into consideration," Francis tells her, but he doesn't sound very reassuring. "Your father and I are still deliberating on it."

"I've finishing deliberating, and the answer is no. Next topic," Arthur says, motioning with his hand for Francis to move on.

"No fair! Madeline wants a dog, too. Right, Maddie?"

"Don't drag me into this. I have a sore throat," Madeline says, massaging her neck.

"The matter at hand is in regard to your father," Francis continues, defusing the conflict for the time being with a prompt change of subject. Immediately, everyone tenses up a bit, and Arthur bites the inside of his cheek, not sure if he should speak now or later. "As you girls both know, your father is ill, and he's going to need our help and support for the next several weeks—perhaps longer depending on how this develops. He's going to take some time off of work. This is supposed to be a time for him to rest."

"I'm not an invalid, Francis. We've had this discussion already. Don't start—"

"One speaker at a time—that's the family meeting rule!" Francis reminds, wagging a finger at Arthur. "You can have your turn in a moment...As I was saying, this is a time for your father to rest, and I expect you both to hold him to this. He's going for an MRI in two weeks, and it is highly likely he will need to have surgery. From what I understand, it is a serious procedure involving—"

"Stop. Don't scare them. It's going to be fine," Arthur interrupts again.

Amelia frowns, puts a hand on his upper arm to get his attention and asks, "How are they gonna get to the tumor?"

"Well," he sighs, wracking his mind for a gentler way to explain. "Umm...Part of the skull is removed-"

"Oh, God! Dad!" Amelia instantly cries out, covering her mouth with her hand. "What about the chance of complications?"

"As with any surgery, there's always a chance of infection, bleeding, a negative reaction to anesthesia...but it's increasingly uncommon, especially with a good neurosurgeon…"

"And is your neurosurgeon good?" Madeline asks, one arm anxiously hugging the other.

"I haven't met with anyone yet, but my colleague, Dr. Oxenstierna, will recommend one, and I trust his judgment. Please, don't worry yourselves. Everything is going to be fine."

"You keep saying that but somehow you just keep getting worse," Amelia notes, and Arthur can feel his headache pulsate with greater intensity.

The familiar tide of nausea starts drawing closer, and he tries to swallow it down to no avail.

"Amelia, that's enough. I've already spoken with your father, and we've decided on ways to make sure he takes better care of himself from now on. What happened is in the past. We need to focus on making things better today and in the near future. The situation is under control, but we're going to need everyone's help. I have to continue working and cannot stay at home with your father all day, so I'm going to ask you girls to lend a hand every now and then. We also need to be able to communicate openly about everything that goes on in this house moving forward," Francis says, and Arthur doesn't miss the quick, worried glance he directs at him. "Arthur?"

"You can continue," Arthur assures, trying to find a discreet way to hold his stomach.

"If your father has any seizures while I'm not home—"

"Seizures?" the girls ask in unison, eyes widening and expressions darkening.

" _Oui_ , there was a little incident at the doctor's office—"

Arthur can't suppress it any longer. He stands up from the couch, excuses himself abruptly, and rushes to the bin in the kitchen to vomit because he knows there's absolutely zero chance of him successfully making it upstairs and into the bathroom.

To his embarrassment, everyone follows him and witnesses it.

"Dad," Amelia whispers from behind him, putting a quivering hand on his shoulder.

When he turns around, Francis is holding out a damp towelette for him, Madeline is pouring him a glass of water, and Amelia is staring at him with pools of tears in her eyes.

"Please, get better," Amelia begs him, leaning her head against his arm with a soft sob. "Please…"

He takes the towelette from Francis, wipes his mouth, and murmurs, "I will."

"Do not worry,  _ma ch_ _é_ _rie,_  your father is Arthur Kirkland, and I have known him long enough to be certain that he'll be better in no time. His sheer pride and ego alone will destroy the tumor even if he doesn't have the surgery," Francis jokes, giving both Amelia and Arthur a warm pat on the back. "Englishmen are stubborn and won't let anything bring them down."

Amelia manages a little laugh, and so does Madeline as she hands Arthur the glass of water.

"You girls are my eyes and ears when I'm not here, all right?" Francis asks, steadying a firm look at each of the girls. "We need to be there for  _each other_. If any of us needs help, we're going to ask for it, no matter how big or small. If something is bothering us, or we're sad or angry or worried, we're going to talk about it with someone. And we're all going to make a commitment to put our family first, right here and now. Agreed?"

"Agreed," the girls say.

"Arthur?"

Arthur downs the rest of the glass and wearily nods. "Agreed."

"Good. One more thing—girls, I've arranged for you to go to a cooking lesson with your father. Please make sure he doesn't hurt himself or set anything on fire and bring shame to the family."

"Oi!"

Amelia and Madeline fail to hold back their laughter, and Arthur wants to be offended, but it's such a relief to hear his children laughing that he can't say a single word in protest. Instead, he takes Francis by the hand and pulls him closer to him.

"With that, I think this family meeting is adjourned...Arthur, go upstairs—I'll bring you some sparkling water and saltines. You need to eat something. You're withering away. Amelia, finish your math homework. Madeline, you need to rest as well."

Arthur really wishes Francis wouldn't say those kinds of things in front of the girls, but he supposes he's going to have to accept the explicit and openly-displayed doting for now if it means it'll keep Francis happy and satisfied.

He's about to walk away when Francis suddenly lowers his head slightly to purr into his ear, "If you eat something for me, there might be a reward involved for being so good…"

Arthur rolls his eyes and scoffs.

"What? You're not interested?"

"How do I know it's worth it?" Arthur asks coyly.

"Oh, I see how it is...Well, I guess I'll just have to prove it to you, then."

The girls are already out of earshot and back in the living room by the time Arthur starts making his way out of the kitchen. Francis has the  _nerve_ to run a soothing hand down his back, stopping him in his tracks, and lets his hand wander lower and lower until…

Arthur slaps his hand away and says, "You'll have to do better than that, I'm afraid."

"You break my heart,  _mon cher_. Truly. Every day it shatters a little more for you."

"Excellent, then I'm fulfilling my duty in this marriage."

* * *

All Arthur sometimes feels when he looks at Mrs. Flynne is indescribable sadness. Sadness for how she waits for John to call her, but he never does. He was supposed to visit the other day, and Arthur thought he'd finally get the chance to meet him, but he never showed. There's sadness in the way she struggles to sometimes move across the room. Sadness for how the cats seem to know something isn't right with their owner. Sadness when she forgets their names. Sadness for how Arthur sometimes arrives to find an empty fridge and has to run out to Tesco to get milk and bread. Sadness for how Mrs. Flynne will go through days of deep depression and refuse to eat or drink or take her blood pressure medication. Sadness for how she put a blanket over her bedroom mirror. Sadness for the painful arthritis that plagues her knees and wrists—sometimes it's so bad that Arthur pleads with her to take a paracetamol or ibuprofen, but she won't. He wraps hot compresses around her wrists and makes her a special dandelion tea that he read about in a book. It can sometimes help with inflammation in joints, supposedly, but he isn't sure if it makes any difference.

Sadness for the boys who throw eggs at her window one day just because they need someone to harass. Sadness for how he had to scrub at the mess for two hours to finally make the outside of the house spotless again.

Sadness for how Mrs. Flynne will, at least twice a week, randomly burst into tears without explanation or reason and cry for a solid two hours before settling down.

Sadness for how even on her better days, she never seems truly happy.

One Wednesday afternoon, after a cup of dandelion tea and a plate of lemon biscuits, Mrs. Flynne stares at him from her chair in the sitting room and asks him, "Why aren't you in school, Arthur?"

"I am in school, Mrs. Flynne. I come here after school."

"Mm...Do you have top marks?"

"Ehh...No, no I don't, I'm afraid."

"Why not?"

"I suppose I don't apply myself enough," he says as he's watering some sunflowers on the windowsill.

"John used to be the same way—bright boy but impeccably destructive."

Arthur manages a strained chuckle and shrugs his shoulders. "John sounds like he's doing all right for himself."

"Stay in school. And go to uni."

"I don't think uni is the right thing for me, but thank you…"

"No. It's not a request."

"I'll think about it," Arthur lies. "Do you remember when you last saw John, Mrs. Flynne?"

She closes her eyes and shakes her head. "I think his mother asked him to stop coming."

"And why would his mother do that?"

"Must have been something I said."

"Is John your grandson, Mrs. Flynne?"

"Yes."

"...I see...It's time for your blood pressure medication again."

"I don't think I'll be taking it today."

"You really ought to—it's for your health."

"When you're my age, health matters very little."

Arthur frowns but doesn't continue pressing the matter. It wouldn't be the first time Mrs. Flynne has declined her medication. Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly brave, he crushes the pills into her yogurt.

"Go to uni, Arthur. When I die, that's what I want you to do, and you cannot disrespect the wishes of the dead."

"Mrs. Flynne, I think it's time you have a lie-down."

"Oh, don't speak to me that way, young man!"

"You know you get argumentative when you're tired."

"I do  _not_ get argumentative."

Arthur tries not to smirk. "No, you're absolutely right...My mistake."

* * *

_**London, 1988** _

He is alone—Mum, Alistair, and Dylan are still at work, but he's home early because Mrs. Flynne is at a doctor's appointment with John, who finally decided to turn up. It's clear to Arthur that John is losing interest in taking care of his grandmother and probably wants nothing to do with her. It's also clear that very few people in this world can be trusted to care for one in a time of need, even when it comes to so-called family.

He's watching a dumb program on the telly about how to make Chorley cakes, except the man hosting the show doesn't seem to know what he's doing, and Arthur would be surprised if the man could boil an egg let alone make anything decent.

He will remember the exact time—4:17 PM.

Three knocks in quick succession pound against the door, and Arthur's first assumption is that it's the postman delivering something. Without thinking, he unlocks the door and swings it open, only to find a man with graying tawny hair, green eyes, an unkempt beard, and broad shoulders staring back at him. For a split second, he thinks he is looking at Patrick, but this man is much older than Patrick, and distant memories from his childhood come flooding back to him—a belt, screaming, bottles of liquor, smelly cigars, the feeling of constant apprehension, falling on the pavement and being told to get up and stop sniveling, unforgiving eyes, and then, nothing but the emptiness of being left...He wonders if it is better to be alone and miserable or in the company of someone awful.

"...Arthur? Is that you? You've grown so much, I barely recognize you."

He is tongue-tied. He has the vague feeling that he should be angry, but he can't process any emotion now other than pure shock.

"I saw Alistair the other day. He was upset."

_Do not give him the satisfaction of hearing your voice._

"You pierced your ear…? No, never mind that, we can talk about it later. Can I come in?"

But there's one question burning on his tongue. A question he needs an answer to.

_"What do you want?"_

"You could use a more respectful tone," his father says, and the memories of the hell he put the family through come rushing back again.

The initial shock fades, and Arthur manages to scoff and purse his lips. If his father is hoping for some kind of tearful reconciliation, he's not going to get it. Ever.

Best to follow Alistair's lead.

"Fuck off," Arthur says in a venomously calm voice before shutting the door and locking it. Then, he quickly takes three long strides away from the door and makes his way to the stairs so he can go about his afternoon and forget this ever happened.

His father starts shouting and screeching vulgarities from outside, but Arthur doesn't pay him any mind. He's numb. He has to be.

He considers calling the police, but that would take quite a bit of effort and explanation. His father will get tired and leave—he's fairly sure of that.

" _I should have never had ungrateful fucking children!"_

Well, that's one thing they can agree on.

He slides a pair of headphones over his ears, steals Alistair's walkman from his room, hits the play button, and lets the cassette tape continue from wherever Alistair paused it. "Houses in Motion" by the Talking Heads begins, and while it's not one of his favorites, it'll do. It's enough to block out his father's shouting.

An invisible force possesses him—maybe it's anger, despair, or something in between. He's not sure why he does what he does next. All he knows is it's what he wants at the moment.

He steps into his mother's bedroom, pulls open the bottom drawer to her nightstand, and finds the sleeping pills that he knows are stowed away there—some simple doxylamine. He takes double the recommended dose—it's not going to seriously harm him. If he wanted to cause himself true harm, he would...But no, he just wants something to take the edge off.

The song continues to play,

" _And as we watch him,_

_Digging his own grave,_

_It is important to know,_

_That was where he's at,_

_He can't afford to stop._

_That is what he believes."_

He swallows the pills dry and goes back to his and Dylan's shared room, gets in his bottom bunk, and lets sleep have him.

" _He'll keep on digging,_

_For a thousand years."_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the amazing reviews and continued support as always! I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint! 
> 
> Trigger warning: This chapter gets dark -- as in, a character starts doing dark, self-harming acts.

"Dad, I don't want to tell you how to make your baklava, but I think it's starting to burn."

"It's not burning, it's…crisping."

"That means it's burning," Madeline tells him as gently as she can before she wipes her hands on her pastel blue apron, steps over to him, and turns off his oven. "I think it's ready. I'll work on the syrup while you set it out to cool…Amelia, how is our entrée? Are you almost done with the chicken?"

"I think it needs another five minutes," Amelia says from across the loud, large kitchen—there are about six other groups of people at this cooking class in addition to the Turkish instructor, making effective communication near impossible.

"Okay, let me know when you think it's done."

Arthur puts on his oven mitts, takes the baklava out, and carefully places the baking pan on the counter without incident.

Madeline was right, it was beginning to burn. It's a good thing she noticed before he could ruin it any further. He's not ashamed to admit that cooking and baking are not skills he prides himself on. He can whip up a basic meal for sheer survival purposes, but nothing beyond that, and though it'll be edible, it's unlikely to be flavorful or anything close to delicious. He leaves the cooking to Francis.

"You should teach us some British recipes sometime, Dad," Amelia suggests with a toothy smile, and Arthur isn't sure if she's teasing him or not.

"Uhh, I'm afraid I don't know very many…My mother, however, used to be a wonderful cook."

Madeline glances at him over the saucepan she's tending to. "You rarely talk about your family."

Arthur takes his oven mitts off, places them on the counter and nervously laughs. "It's complicated, I suppose."

"But your mom—our grandma—used to cook?" Amelia asks, raising her brows with increased interest.

"Oh, yes…When she had the time. I'll never forget the Cornish pasties she used to make. She would have loved you both dearly. I'm sure of that."

"She died of breast cancer, right?"

"Yes."

Amelia frowns, bites her lip, and shuffles from foot to foot, occasionally checking on the chicken in her pan before finally saying what's on her mind. "Umm. What about your dad? You never mention him, except that you two didn't get along."

Arthur's chest tightens. He wills himself not to be sick. The smell of the food is starting to affect him. "It wasn't about getting along—he was merely absent from my life for a very long time, and he had an…abusive relationship with my family. But, that's all in the past now. It doesn't matter…"

"…What happened to your dad?" Madeline quietly asks, seemingly frightened by her own question.

"Well, uhh, he had a stroke, and he didn't recover…He was…medically brain dead after that…"

Amelia drops the fork she has been using to poke at the chicken and looks at him with another grave frown. "How old were you?"

"Twenty-five, I think…I had just finished medical school and was applying for residency. This was after my mother passed away as well. It was…an isolating time. I had to make some tough decisions and—oh, never mind. It is what it is," Arthur finishes, uncomfortable. He knows the girls deserve a better explanation than what he has given them. They have every right to be curious about his family (which is also their family now), but these are old wounds—very old wounds.

"I'm sorry," Madeline whispers, switching off her burner.

"No, don't be. It's all right. It's natural you've both asked me these things…"

"No, I didn't mean it that way. I meant, I'm sorry you had to go through that."

"Oh."

He clears his throat roughly, grabs an antacid from his bag and takes it, and then replies, "I wouldn't be here today if not for all of that…In the end, it worked itself out."

The girls both nod at him and offer him small smiles, soothing the ache in his chest.

"Ahh, shit! The chicken is burning, guys!" Amelia suddenly shouts, jumping with alarm.

"I told you to watch it!" Madeline chides.

Arthur simply shakes his head at the two of them and thinks about how lucky he is to still have a family.

* * *

_**London, 1989** _

He looks at a boy the wrong way.

It's hard to pinpoint where the chain of events started, but all Arthur knows is that he's been secretly admiring Lucas from his physics lab for the past several weeks. He didn't think anyone noticed. After all, it's not like he would ever go up to him and talk to him. In fact, he's not even sure if Lucas knows he exists, but there's something about his eyes, and his hair, and that dimply chin that make Arthur feel emotions he doesn't want to feel. He knows it's wrong. He knows he should be turning his affections and attention elsewhere…Why can't he just be normal? There's no way Lucas is like him anyway. He would be disgusted if he knew he was being ogled by another boy…

Lucas has a girlfriend. And, without having to get into the deeper adolescent drama of it all, suffice it to say that she  _notices_. She starts to tell Lucas's friends—his oversized, bulky, athletic friends—that the queer boy from physics lab has been lusting after him.

And that's all it takes for Arthur to get pummeled into the ground on his way home. Just three minutes away from the school building, the boys find him, knock him over, and start viciously kicking him in the head and stepping on his face with their grimy, mud-dampened shoes.

He doesn't scream. Or cry. Or even whimper. He just stares at the gray clouds above him and wonders how many more times he's going to have to go through this before he dies. How many more lives does he have left? Maybe this will be it. Maybe this will finally end him, and he's not even upset about it—in fact, he thinks he'd be relieved. At long last, he would be at peace.

One of the boys who now has him in a chokehold spits in his face. "Faggot."

He can't breathe.

His vision fades.

 _This is it_ , he thinks.

The freedom he's been waiting for—the release from this hell. He'll float from here and go far, far away—all the way to oblivion.

And it doesn't matter. He's a nuisance to his mother, and his father certainly won't care if he dies. He doesn't have any friends. Dylan might be upset for a few days, but he'll move on. Mrs. Flynne won't have anyone to remind her to take her blood pressure medication, but Mum will likely personally arrange for someone else to tend to her. No need to worry.

Nothing left to live for really.

He shuts his eyes and waits for total blackness.

But it never comes. It  _never_ fucking comes.

The hands around his neck release him, the boys' footsteps fade, and Arthur slowly starts to regain awareness and control of his senses. His hearing comes back first, then his vision clears a bit, but his left eye is swelling quickly, and he has a feeling he won't be seeing properly for a while.

His nose is bleeding again. He touches it—palpates the cartilage to check if it's whole and straight, and it's not. It's definitely displaced, and if the searing pain is anything to go by, it's probably broken.

Otherwise, the rest of his injuries are superficial. It appears that, yet again, he has evaded serious harm.

For a good four extra minutes, he stays prone on the ground and doesn't budge. Part of him doesn't want to get up. Maybe he can still will death upon himself from this position.

But when this also fails, he finally stands on wobbling legs and cries out in pain at the battered mess his nose has become. If he goes home looking like this, his mother will simply think it's his fault again—that he started a petty fight or involved himself in one intentionally. There'll be no sense in defending himself against her.

He needs to clean himself up. He could attempt re-aligning his own nose in front of a mirror, but he imagines it would be excruciatingly painful, probably just as painful as being stabbed with a knife was—at least he was unconscious for most of that experience.

But he'll be damned if he's going to go seek professional help. He can handle this on his own—he always has.

Everyone should still be at work, and he can be a little late to Mrs. Flynne's. Arriving an hour later won't make a difference. At most, Mrs. Flynne will be a little more irritated than usual.

So, he sneaks into the house, heads straight for the bathroom, and rinses the blood off of his face and out of his nostrils. Then, he sticks a rolled-up tea towel between his teeth, bites down hard, places his index and middle fingers on either side of his nose, and tries to push the cartilage into place with quivering hands.

His shrill scream is muffled by the towel, and his face goes completely red. Tears stream from his eyes involuntarily and his forehead begins to glisten with sweat.

Why did he think this would be a good idea again?

And then, it's over, but he cries and cries for as long as his heart allows him. It's not even about the nose—it's  _everything_. It's the constant pain that comes from simply living.

The house phone rings before he can wallow any further.

He steadies his breath, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand, and picks up.

"Hello?"

"Arthur, why aren't you at Mrs. Flynne's? I just received a call—she's in hospital," his mother's sharp voice greets him.

The rest of the blood in his body feels like it drains out of him. "What? What happened?"

"She had a heart attack, Arthur."

"Where is she? What hospital?"

"Saint John and Saint Elizabeth's."

"Can I go?"

"Where are you?"

"At home…I wasn't feeling well after school. I stopped by to take some paracetamol before I was going to go to Mrs. Flynne's," he lies, but it sounds convincing enough, especially considering how nasally his voice currently is.

"Do you have a cold?"

"Something of the sort," he says. "I'll go and visit, if that's all right. Is she…?"

"I don't know…I haven't heard from anyone yet about her condition. I'll come and join you in a few hours."

"Okay."

"You're a good boy, Arthur…Mrs. Flynne has been speaking very highly of you, it seems."

"Has she really?" he asks, and more tears roll down his scalding hot cheeks.

"Yes…I love you. I'll see you in a bit."

She hangs up, and Arthur bursts into a fit of sobs though he's not sure why. Is this all his fault? If he'd been on time, would he have been able to do something? To call for help sooner? To prevent this?

His mother is wrong.

He's not a good person. All he does is make the world a more terrible place.

* * *

After spending a whole hour this morning trying to explain to Francis why he would  _not_ be needed at his appointment for his MRI today, it seems he should have saved his energy. In the end, Francis tags along anyway, insisting he will be able to make himself useful by driving– after all, for safety purposes, Arthur is no longer allowed to drive now that he's had a seizure. He's been doing just fine with taking buses to get where he needs to go—he even took the bus with the girls the other day to go to that cooking class, and all was dandy.

"It's important to have someone who loves you there," is what Francis says as they're heading out the front door.

"But you didn't have to take the day off of work for this…"

"I wanted to. Who wants to be in a hospital all by themselves?"

"I won't be in a hospital—it's a radiology center."

"Same thing, really."

Once they arrive—they go through the usual dance: checking-in with the receptionist, filling out a form, waiting, and then more waiting…

It feels degrading as a medical professional to be in this position, and although he's been through several embarrassing encounters now since that initial car accident, it's still as degrading as it's always been.

When his name gets called, Francis stands up to go with him, but Arthur explains that he can't come—only the patient can go into the room.

The room is cold—as expected. He's left alone for a minute to change into another damned gown. He  _hates_ this.

Then, he lies down on the table, is given a pair of earplugs to block out the sound of the MRI machine, holds still, and…

He falls asleep.

Honestly, it seems he can fall asleep just about anywhere nowadays, and it's even more humiliating than having to wear a gown. He gets woken up by the technician, who tells him the scan is over and he can change back into his regular clothes. He'll have to do some more sitting around in the waiting room before he can get his results from the radiologist.

Francis embraces him as soon as he's back, comments about how cold his hands are, and then holds them in his own to warm them up. "How did it go?"

"Fine. We'll have to wait to speak to a doctor now."

"Did they show you the images yet?"

"No."

Francis sighs, squeezes his hands, and then plants soft kisses on his knuckles. "Okay. I'm sure it'll be all right,  _mon cher_."

They wait longer than they should—a warning sign to Arthur that it  _isn't_ all right. It's the first red flag.

The second red flag is when they get called into a consultation room and there's not one, but two doctors waiting to greet them.

To spare them all, Arthur speaks first once he's seated, already having his answer, "It's inoperable, isn't it?"

One of the doctors looks at him in alarm, twiddles the ballpoint pen in his hand, and quickly shakes his head. "No, no, no. It's operable. That doesn't mean the procedure is risk-free, of course, but it's operable."

Francis gives off an audible sigh of relief, and Arthur knows he should be happy and relieved as well, but it appears he's still struggling to feel any emotion about all of this. In many ways, it doesn't feel real. Somehow, it feels like, yet again, he is beating the odds—surviving against all of the hurdles being placed in front of him. Is it fortune? Or just a greater power having a good laugh at him?

"Given your reactions, I assume you'll want to go through with the surgery then?"

Arthur nods and takes a moment to feel a bit foolish for jumping to conclusions. "Yes."

"Great. You'll have to speak with your surgeon about the details of the procedure, but I can tell you that you'll be put under general anesthesia and the procedure usually lasts between three to five hours," the older of the two doctors—who Arthur assumes is the attending—says. "You can then expect to spend anywhere from five to fourteen days in the hospital depending on how you're doing afterward. You'll feel tired and rundown for the first two months, but things should gradually improve after that."

"And how long will he have to wait to be scheduled for the surgery?" Francis asks.

"I wouldn't be able to tell you that. It all depends on the neurosurgeon. Given the severity of symptoms—maybe you'll be on the waiting list for only a month. This would be considered an elective surgery, though that probably sounds strange, so there will be a bit of a wait."

As usual, Francis asks most of the questions while Arthur sits back and imagines the possibilities—hemorrhaging, sepsis, cardiac or respiratory arrest...It's not as simple as getting one's appendix taken out, but it could also be worse, he supposes. And while he's not fond of the idea of having a metal plate in his skull for the remainder of his life, it's either that or live with the misery of this meningioma until it finally drives him into the ground.

The second doctor is merely on a fellowship and not of much use. He follows along with the conversation and recites some basic facts about meningiomas. Then, they open the floor to more questions, but Arthur has nothing to ask or say. He knows what's going to happen to him, and it's not going to be pleasant, to say the least. He'd rather not discuss it any longer and avoid the subject until the actual surgery, frankly.

Once Francis has been placated, they say their goodbyes and leave. All that's left now is a visit to the neurosurgeon Oxenstierna referred him to next week and then the real waiting game will officially commence.

"How are you feeling about all of this?" Francis asks him once they're back in the car.

Arthur puts his seatbelt on and notices there's a bottle of water in the passenger's side cup holder. It wasn't there before…Francis is doting on him again, and he's not going to stop.

Well, he's definitely not going to have any water to drink now.

"Nothing really."

"What do you mean nothing?"

"Well, all there is to do is get the surgery."

"Aren't you nervous about it?"

Arthur shrugs his shoulders. "I don't have a choice, so it doesn't matter how I feel about it, now does it?"

"That's not the right attitude to have."

"I apologize that my attitude doesn't meet your standards."

"Oh, here you go again."

"How did you expect me to respond?"

"For someone who's severely ill, you sure have the strength to talk back," Francis huffs, pointedly keeping his gaze on the road. "I left that water there for you for a reason. Drink it."

"No, thank you. I'm not thirsty."

"I didn't ask if you were thirsty. I said to drink it."

"Stop mothering me, or it's going to be a  _very_ long month," Arthur snarls through gritted teeth. "You're going to give me another migraine."

"Don't blame it on me—blame it on yourself for getting agitated when I'm trying to help."

It's uncomfortably hot in the car. Arthur puts a hand on his suddenly dizzy head and mumbles, "Pull over."

"What? No, I'm not letting you get out of the car to throw a fit again like you did last time."

"I'm not going to throw a fit, idiot. Unless you want me to vomit on the dashboard, pull over."

" _Merde_ ," Francis swears, immediately slowing down and putting his blinker on before stopping at the next corner. "Sorry, I didn't realize…There has to be a plastic bag in the back somewhere. Hold on,  _mon amour_."

"I have no control over whether or not I can," Arthur replies with a low groan, undoing his seatbelt and opening his door. How many more times is he going to have to go through this until he gets some relief? The cold, early-winter air that clashes with his face feels heavenly.

Francis finds a plastic bag, comes rushing back, and crouches in front of Arthur. He passes the bag to him and then rubs his back with one hand while the other sweeps his bangs off to the side.

He's clammy and disgusting. He doesn't know why Francis isn't absolutely revolted by him.

"That's strange," Francis whispers, pressing his palm more firmly against Arthur's forehead. "You're warm,  _mon cher_. Did you catch a cold? I'm not surprised…Your body is under a great deal of stress…"

Arthur isn't in a state to respond because a second later, he loses what little nutrients and fluids he has been wrestling into his system. The episode leaves him in his now routine paroxysms— shaking, sweating, and coughing all at once. He concedes and decides to take a few sips from the water bottle Francis left him after all, if only to wash the taste of stomach acid from his mouth.

"You're on bedrest. Understand? That's it. I've had it," Francis says, taking the now soiled plastic bag away from him and disposing of it in a garbage bin.

Arthur's not going to argue. Sleep sounds divine. He could sleep for an eternity and probably still not feel fully rested. And yes, now that he thinks about it, he is feeling a bit feverish. Either Madeline gave him her strep or another patient shared something with him.

"Well, I suppose it's a good thing then that I'm on sick leave," he grumbles.

"That's the spirit."

* * *

_**London, 1989** _

Mrs. Flynne does not die of a heart attack.

She dies of sepsis.

Fucking sepsis—something completely preventable. How do you survive a heart attack only to then become septic as a result of a shoddy care team? It's not fair. It's negligence, and it's maddening.

He wants to tear down the walls of this hospital and sue everyone for all the money they're worth, but he's not sure how to do that. Plus, he doesn't think any amount of yelling at a doctor or nurse will quell the resentment in his chest.

Mrs. Flynne didn't deserve to die this way. She deserved better. She deserved more than a grandson who didn't want to look after her. She deserved a loving family and all of the cats her heart desired and the right to curse as many children and teens who would go by her house as she felt necessary. She deserved better food than the eggs and tea Arthur would attempt to make for her. She deserved friends, more people who would be patient with her, and a life outside of her house. She should not have been house-bound the way she was. Arthur should have taken her to the park or out to the shops— _something_. Most importantly, she deserved people who cared about her, including the people at this hospital.

But it's all too late now.

Long after she is removed from her bed and her limp body is taken away, Arthur sits in her hospital room and stares at the white walls and the sad window to his right. Outside, there are children kicking a football down the street and talking loudly to one another, but inside, it's distressingly quiet.

He checks his watch—Mum and everyone else are likely still at work. Mum said she would come and see Mrs. Flynne, but there's nothing to see anymore. By the time she arrives in two hours, not even the nurses will remember who Mrs. Flynne was, as their minds will be too preoccupied with their living patients.

He gets up and decides he's going to go home. Staying here any longer would be fruitless.

It all starts to sink in on the tube ride back, and it takes all of his willpower not to cry like a child again. When he lifts a hand up to rub his face, he quickly draws back because of his sore nose, and he is reminded of all of the injustice he's seen today. It's all shit. The world is an awful, awful place.

By the time he reaches the Kirkland family doorstep, he has entirely disassociated from his body. He goes through the motions of taking off his shoes, throwing his rucksack on his bedroom floor, and stealing Alistair's walkman yet again. He walks down the hallway, traces his footsteps back and forth, and pictures his seven-year-old self at the base of the stairs, clutching a Lego block and asking when Dad is going to come home.

He looks back at Alistair's room and remembers when he used to share it with Patrick—when they were still all children who often ended up rearing themselves. Always taught not to feel. Always be tough. Always passively accept it when things fall apart.

He enters his mother's bedroom. It's more barren than it used to be—much like the rest of the house. Did Mum and Dad ever sleep in this bed together? Probably, but he was too young…All he knows are pitch-black nights of his father crawling onto the couch downstairs and mumbling drunkenly to himself.

Did they ever really love each other?

He grabs his mother's doxylamine again and clutches the box in his right hand.

" _I am a passenger_

_And I ride and I ride_

_I ride through the city's backside_

_I see the stars come out of the sky_

_Yeah, they're bright in a hollow sky_

_You know it looks so good tonight."_

Since when does Alistair listen to Iggy Pop?

He holds the box up to the light—little pills that look like stars if you squint hard enough…

It never comes. It never comes. It  _never_ comes.

But it took Mrs. Flynne.

And he'll be damned.

_"He looks through his window_

_What does he see?_

_He sees the silent hollow sky_

_He sees the stars come out tonight_

_He sees the city's ripped backsides_

_He sees the winding ocean drive."_

Calmly, he takes a glass from the kitchen, fills it to the top with tepid water and returns to his room with it and the box of doxylamine. He lies down in his familiar, cozy bottom bunk, and, one by one, pops out the tablets until he loses count of how many are in his hand. The soothing tempo of the music begins to sound like a lullaby.

He stares at the pills for several minutes. A few begin to melt in his palm.

He closes his eyes, imagines he is lying on a boat going down the Thames River, and all he can see are London's lights and the bruised navy blue sky. Then, he pours the pills into his mouth. They clack against his teeth and taste bitter when they meet his tongue. He drinks a bit of water and holds it in his mouth with the tablets for a long moment.

He doesn't pray. In fact, he hasn't been to church in ages ever since Mum stopped making him go, but he supposes if this is really it, he ought to do at least one religious act, if only to make his inevitable time spent in hell slightly more bearable. Penance—he was never very good at that.

He traces the sign of a cross over his lips with his thumb and swallows.

* * *

"Would you like a bedtime story? Maybe a lullaby?"

"Oh, shut it."

Francis chuckles at him and pecks his increasingly red nose with a kiss, causing his nostrils to flare from an impending sneeze that then rattles him to his core.

It seems he really does have a cold—his first cold in several years. What a bother.

"Bless you,  _mon cher_. Tea? And soup?" Francis asks brightly before shoving him into bed and pulling the duvet over him. "And your multivitamin that you don't take often enough?"

Arthur doesn't offer a response aside from an ineloquent moan and a feeble, "Could you turn out the light?"

"Of course," Francis coos, and cool, pleasant darkness fills the room a second later. "Shout if you need something. I'll be back in a little while."

He nods even though Francis can't see him any longer. His husband leaves the bedroom door cracked open, allowing just the smallest bit of light to shine through—not enough to aggravate his head, but just enough to make him feel secure and not isolated.

...

"Dad? Are you sleeping?" a voice whispers as he's trying to get comfortable.

"No, what is it...? Please, don't turn on the light."

Amelia peeks her head in, pushes the door open a bit more, and asks, "C-Can I come in?"

Given the tremble in her voice, something isn't right.

"You should be asleep, Amelia…You can come in but don't come too close—I don't want you catching my cold."

"Too late, I've already got it. Actually, I think I gave it to you. Sorry. I've had a runny nose for two days…"

Arthur clicks his tongue, sits up a bit, and tries to narrow his eyes to get a better look at Amelia. "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I didn't want to worry you. You've got too many problems already."

"Come here."

Obligingly, Amelia hops into the bed and cuddles up to him, wrapping a hand around his arm. "Yeah?"

"You have to promise me something."

"Oh, no."

"Promise me you won't hesitate to tell me whatever's on your mind or when you're feeling unwell, no matter the circumstances," he says before setting a hand on her forehead. Sure enough, she's equally as warm as he is.

"Okay. I promise."

"Thank you…Now, there's something else you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Oh, yeah…I can't sleep."

"Why not? Because of your cold?"

"That, too, but also…I keep thinking about your surgery. What if something bad happens?"

"Nothing bad is going to happen," Arthur assures her, petting her hair. "You leave all of that worrying to me, all right?"

"Okay…I love you, Dad. I can't help but be really worried about you."

"I love you, too, and I know, but please try not to worry."

Amelia hums in agreement and puts her head on his chest. "Remember when you were talking about your dad the other day?"

"…What about him?"

"Did you love him? Even though he wasn't that good?"

Arthur sighs and lets his eyes close. "…Yes, very much so. I was disappointed in him. I expected more from him. And I suppose if I hadn't loved him, I wouldn't have cared as much as I did…It's difficult to explain. I think that for many years, I felt shame for caring…But then he died, and I was there…It put things into perspective."

"I'm sorry."

"There's no need to be…Now, you should get some rest, poppet."

"Can I stay here with you for a while?"

"Oh, all right."

It doesn't take long for Amelia to doze off in his arms. He dips his head, kisses her cheek, and pulls her closer. It's only then that he notices that she has a  _septum piercing_! He wants to be furious! When did that happen? And how could she not tell him? She's still  _grounded_  so when in the world did she find the time to do this? Worse, what if she gets an infection? Does she know how to properly maintain it?

He silently fumes about it for ten minutes until he remembers his own youth…

There's no doubt in his mind that Amelia is certainly  _his_ daughter.

And that terrifies him.


End file.
